My new year’s resolution
is to start a revolution,
to turn the tide
against this fascist wave.
There’s only one solution
to insure evolution,
to send this despot legion
to its grave.
Take to the street,
tear down the walls.
Negate defeat
when history calls.
We must risk all,
including death.
We fight for right,
’til our last breath.
She breeds like centipedes.
She feeds. She needs. She bleeds.
The suffering mother of millions
aims high, perhaps even quadrillions.
Her womb is a room to so many,
it once earned a line from Jack Benny.
Her milk, if collected in jars,
would reach half the distance to Mars.
She has sixty daughters named Millie,
and unisex thousands named Billie.
Though none of ’em strays from her sights,
there’s hardly a handful that writes,
Her life’s been spent spreading her legs.
Who knew she’d contain all those eggs?
There’s sixty-five daughters named Janet.
Her spawn are all swarming the planet.
God bless you, good mother of millions.
Surprisingly, most are Sicilians.
Can you write me a prescription,
doc, for some dilaudid, please?
I heard it helped with Elvis.
I have trouble with my knees.
And maybe a few percodans
would help me with my head.
But if you’re running low on those,
darvon will do instead.
Of course I’ll need some valium
to quell this morning shake.
I always wake up groggy
from the sleeping pills I take.
And, while you’re at it,
opiods and pill form THC
would really ease my ailments,
doc; they’ll be the death of me.
T’was the night of seismics
that we all lucked out,
seeking entertainment
in the underground,
came upon a dark
spontaneous cabaret
even all the locals
had been mum about,
where we saw a small girl
with a broken leg
sing so eloquently
on her fishbowl life,
it was evident that
we had all been changed.
First we cried and laughed
and then we signed her cast.
Kind castles create bland rulers.
The harsh flag scoffs at victory.
Prepare to die by poison ideas.
The armor of the future is speed.
Pure evil is the fulcrum of doubt.
Get over it: forget the Alamo.
Loose troops sink ships’ shapes.
Bomb patterns make lovely quilts.
A nation of spies has much in common.
Death works well as a diversion.
Peace is the luxury of also rans.
When the blood market wanes, open veins.
The only good gun is a used one.
Defeat is the posture of disease.