Red Tin Noodles

Mister Sessions, I don’t deal in heroin or blow.
I don’t deal in oxycontin, either.
But now, for legal weed, you want to put me on death row.
Relax, chill out, AG, you need a breather.
I thought the rules had changed regarding marijuana’s sale,

the benefits realized in legal smoking.
But now you want to turn around and put me into jail,
and sentence me to death, you must be joking?
It’s not like legal smokers want to take away your gun.
It’s not like they’ll go wild and eat your babies.
They want to get high sometimes and just have a little fun.
But now you’re treating them like they have rabies.
Perhaps you are reacting to the old phrase "killer weed."
You realize that’s not what it really means.
You don’t have problems giving the real killers what they need.
Like wartime ammo and AK15’s.
So, back off, little brother, maybe you just need a smoke.
A little reefer might expand your thinking.
Go ask all your joint chiefs if they’ll let you have a toke.
It’s better for your health than bourbon drinking.

A march of words
lined up like birds
upon a leafless branch.
Some flew away.
Some deigned to stay.
It put me in a trance.
New words alit
replacing those
which recently took flight.
It went this way
all day.
A book was writ.
And then came night.

Gonzo Floyd, a country Pink alum,
sat on his porch, regardless, chewing gum.
He had a Stratocaster, that was speckled with old plaster
where he had once devoured several walls.
He swore that he would never play in halls.
And no one ever questioned that guy’s balls.
Something was amiss, he’d hiss, while eyeing music sheets.
He’d scan the air and, most aware, descend on frightened beats.
He’d root them out, to cheer and shout, and lay the rhythm open.
It’s number one for several weeks, the back room guys were hopin’.
They saw a tour and they were sure that fame would come to stay.
“I’m sorry, dude,” the rep, so rude, threw down, while in their way.
Rehearsal was just ending, as the tired strings were bending,
and the thumping of the bass declared a stop.
“We’ll never get back there, where every breath of air
declares life’s so much better at the hop.”

Zen parasites amass
in subtle grandeur.
Invincible, inviolate
and destitute.
Imagination spawns
balloons of oversight.
The helix doubles back
along its route.
We are helpless.
Help us, Mister Everything!
Put our feet
upon the path secure.
Malapropic oversight
means nothing’s right.
And life goes by,
unrecognized, a blur.

We probed inherent violence,
proposed opposing force.
Our findings met with silence,
society’s recourse.
Now we’re a country station
and you’re our demographic.
We’ll tail you through the nation,
through hell and heavy traffic.
We’ll sell you on our prayers, our hymns,
religion and salvation,
persuade you other paths are whims
or back roads to damnation.
We’ll offer you the keys to dreams,
to everything you need.
We lost you once before it seems,
but now we’re up to speed.

Looks like we’ll have a springtime filled with perps and prosecutors,
all to stop a president who’d rather be at Hooters.
Already we have several names, like Gates and Manafort.
Papadopoulos and Flynn have had their time in court.
Rob Porter and Hope Hicks jumped ship before the boat goes down.
Spicey and the Mooch were booted and got out of town.
Priebus and Sebastian Gorka remain under fire,
like Steve Bannon, Trump’s beloved crypto-nazi liar.
Remarkably, Jeff Sessions, our attorney general gnome,
has not bailed yet, the rebel pet, and still calls D.C. home.
And Sarah Sanders: who can wait to see her on the stand,
with southern twang and double talk, her dominatrix brand.
Maybe surprise ending will be Omarosa wired.
She could play the tapes in court, stand up and scream, "You’re fired!"
All in all, we’d like to see this wrap before the summer.
End this era, known hereafter as "The U.S. Bummer."