Body bags became our rags

As we spewed laugh-less trite

About “Rag Heads,” deserts, disgust

About tinseled 9.11-rust and New Yor’ Ricans

Mustn’t ask how many died.

It’s a secret, shhush, so they can lie.

We hid behind a moral pride

When we murder extols no toll

Our eyes roll up lobotomized

Into the sky

We praise the phallic poll

flag waving

Like a guest at the end-zone goal

Madison etched the greatest prose I suppose

Rhetoric and lofty goals

Come clean and clean your nose

Peruvians know what you chose.

By the power vested in saints

We’d suck a cowboy to steal his Paint

We’d rob our kindergartner’s souls

We take what’s yours, ours, theirs and whole

And make it into lesser parts

Steal Son-day’s sunsets

Trade them for a gallon

Of that huffin’ cream puffin’ fluffin’ petrol

That mighty coal-sperm of the fossils

A fluid fluid worth a murder

Why not kill a pair?

For some dirty underwear

I’d kill 4,936 for my share

of gold


Let me take you lower

To the place where colonels blunder

Another soul blackened asunder

From the rifles we marched under

To the lesser

To the lust

To the listless

To the crust

Of the scabs

Atop our once-belief

Drippin’ from my once belief


About memoirpoet

I've been faking it as a writer for more than 30 years. Keep that low.
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One Response to Scabs

  1. Pingback: Scabs | Memoirs and Poems

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