The Old Leech
You'll know me
by the cartilage
Of my bicycle bell
As I rummage
through your garbage
For aluminum to sell
For unbroken
glass bottles
And plastic as well
Checking out
your brokerage
And credit card bills
Your
correspondence page by page
You stinking liberals
Sic sic sic sic
Dem secular humanists!
Sic sic sic sic
Dem secular humanists!
Sic 'em, boy!
Make yr daddy proud!
This contract
gives me a mandate
To do what I can do
Return all power
to the state
Of good-ol'-boys and true
Cut funding to
what might educate
And P.B.S. too
Downsize the
right to immigrate
That threatens me and you
Return to
policies that isolate
And let Europe stew
Sic sic sic sic
Dem secular humanists!
Sic sic sic sic
Dem secular humanists!
Sic 'em, boy!
Make yr daddy proud!
I know how to
balance the budget
Come closer so I can tell
Just let me open
your wallet
I love that leather smell
Defence
investments end all debt
With armaments to sell
So it's time to
pack the ballot
And give abortionists hell!
We'll load the
Bible with bullets
And shoot them infidels!
Sic sic sic sic
Dem secular humanists!
Sic sic sic sic
Dem secular humanists!
Seig heil, boy!
Make yr daddy proud!
White flares singe and blind
Eyes that stare too long at the sun.
The pink and fair-skinned streak
Their faces with white paint.
Resentment and grudges
Fuel the rage whose cinders
Smolder across generations
And take down massive forests.
White is the evisceration
Of colors, and even those who
Embrace its phallus
Are not truly white.
Bleached, blanched, these white tribes
Worship crucifying whomever
They think their white god blesses
For being better than they are.
Rally Round the Flag
"Every flag in history has been about some kind of hatred" -- Tyler Titsworth.
Let them pout, their brown shirts on,
daily irradiated by the cathode ray,
so when they punk the cowed town,
they’ll say what Fox tells them
to say.
It’s fun to raise some hell,
when gonads rule the brain,
and defend the Rebel yell
in a flag of Southern pain.
Every flag’s been burned
from Iran to South Carolina,
but terrorists have learned
to call one thing by another.
Young, hanging with each other,
mash identities up online,
devoted to pleasing the father,
home-grown hunters by design.
They expect to be rewarded
as if they were the voice of reason,
their white privilege recorded
celebrating a flag of treason.
But what other flag do they have
than pure spite to spit in the eye?
Children’s hands raise the steeple
as if people could
still be people.
Ask them to bring their black friends
to the Pope County Rebel Ride;
let reparations make amends
at this time of Southern pride.
