Americana on Give-Away
You’d think we were born in a bog,
all it is is dog eat dog.
You’d like a slice of apple pie,
right from the post office in your eye.
You’d relax for hours at Starbucks,
your song-cycle comes in trucks.
You hear the news of Lindsay Lohan,
you take a picture of her girlfriend,
you crush the fertile hand you’re holdin’.
You’d think we were born in a carpark,
snaps are glowing after dark.
You’d come into this groovy bar,
for other life is pinpoint on a star.
Occasion answers everywhere,
breathe another gust of blinged air.
You decide it must be tennis,
those are ganglials of the net,
that’s a guard against the bet
that you have stayed your last re-pass.
But still ’ruther breathe throbbing wheel,
let it flow for trials of steel.
Now Simon says get out of bed,
go back to bed, Simon is dead.
Simon is dead and certain branches
of your tree are dead by axes.
Community Lactation Board
says there is no more, eat sword.
Council of the Church of Lily-Pod
arrives to make the Future God
once it has been stripped of Good.
You’d think we were all born in woods,
babies, we knew better, men and women, worse;
Rod’s first children taking all the goods,
likely citizens, rabbit racecourse.
Having the great life of divorce
from realism, tide- and time-hearse.
And so it was inscribed and said,
only bed worth making are the living dead,
only red worth sinking are the burning wounded.