I love a tall cowboy who’s lovin’ his saddle.
My horse n’ my beer n’ my hungry guitar.
My yard is a mess n’ my dog looks like heaven.
I don’t think my poor neck will stretch very far.
Look away. Look away, muddy water.
The elastic prairie has snapped in my back
n’ the dirt is all risin’ in buckets.
I run from a crime that I can’t even see
n’ my stomach is filled with gold nuggets.
Look away. Look away, climbing river.
One day they’ll teach in public schools
how Republicans were tools
of some evil autocrats,
treating folks like fleas or gnats,
promising the rich more wealth
while the nation lost its health.
They were sneaky. They told lies.
Some of them were even spies.
At their head a demagogue
posed as god but was a cog
in an overarching scheme
to bring down a country’s dream.
They would drill in sacred soil.
Nothing was immune to spoil.
They were always on the take,
called all accusations fake.
Their contempt for all our laws
had the public dropping jaws.
So it was when this cabal
found itself nailed to the wall
citizens sang justice songs.
Traitors were jailed for their wrongs.
History calls it failed coup.
Be aware, they’ll seek re-do.
A very tall man was standing on his roof,
fishing for the moon, which caught the attention
of an insomniac ape who happened to be walking by,
sleep having failed him again.
"I do wish I could catch the moon," said the man.
"I do wish I could get some sleep," said the ape.
"If you help me catch the moon, I will let you
lay down on it," said the man, assuming something
so beautiful and quiet would have to be conducive
to sleep. The ape was atop the roofspot in a flash.
Together they experimented with every hook, line, lure,
rod, bait, pole and reel imaginable, but to no avail.
At last it was decided the moon was being unreasonably
defensive, a fickle temptation no longer worth casting after.
"I am tired," said the ape. "Tomorrow we will try for the sun,"
said the man, "It is much bigger." Right there on the roof,
they started singing like sailors reunited after many years at sea:
"Oh the moon is a prune in a cellophane tree.
And I’ve finally found out it means nothing to me.
I’ve got me a friend who’s as strange as can be.
Together we might hitch a star."
Some of the molding surrounding this world
is now horribly chipped and turning grey.
Time has come for some renunciation.
Much beauty has flown, seeds no longer sown.
Seems participants are on vacation.
The dust of all that’s passed will surely last
until it’s swept away, and even then,
some hangers-on will still insist to stay
to be part of history’s striation.
The aim of reconstruction’s future dreams
is oft to thwart destruction’s aged schemes.
The days are passing, cast toward rising seas.
But infrastructure’s down upon its knees.
It’s at the breaking point. Time help us, please.
So your children live in huts
and disappear for days.
At least you have your health
(Occasionally)
And a good working relationship
With a nearby pharmacist.
So your dreams involve the death
Of earmarked insensates.
At least you have cool shoes
(Check for footprints)
And a viable subway system.
So you’ve been to Jupiter
And found it not so great.
At least you had time off
(For mere behavior)
And now your diary
Smells like stars.