Whack, whack. Time after time. Child abuse begins early and ends late. Only the good die young. The rest wreak havoc on parked cars and each other. On old women with a purse full of food stamps. On those who were pampered with love. They serve time, pick up new tricks, join the army (kill, kill, kill), hide their wounded hearts behind a chest full of medals–for valor, for battle scars, for serving the Commander in Chief, strutting around in his seersucker suit.
My country tis of thee–it wasn’t rock ‘n’ roll that slaughtered innocence, it was Ronald MacDonald and his corporate minions. It was supply and demand with impossible price tags.
The grocery store, jam-packed with sugar and pesticides. Chemicals with names no one can pronounce. What ever happened to steak and potatoes, fresh greens? Monsanto fills out the forms and lays claim to the seed kingdom, as legal as genocide.
There’s not yet a law against the likes of me, but there soon will be, and then everyone can get serious about ripping the souls from the breasts of young children and feeding them into Moloch’s furnace.
What’s Moloch? Be patient, little citizens. There’ll soon be a pilot TV show, a replacement for Superman, Wyatt Earp, Charlie Chaplin and God.