Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Don’t Try

Thursday, October 25th, 2012

Beats living in a cardboard box and having rats chew on your legs while you sleep, The Mayor supposes. Not many people enjoy work, but the alternative to work is to be a leech. We have far too many leeches in society as it is, so, drink up your Victory Coffee, put on your light blue shirt and matching pants and get the hell to work.

Bukowski is correct for the most part, but when it comes to hating work, or anything else for that matter, The Mayor prefers these lyrics from the group Trooper: “If you don’t like what you got why don’t you change it? If your world is all screwed up, rearrange it.”

*** “Don’t Try”are the words written on Bukowski’s gravestone.

I Have A Dreamsicle

Monday, January 16th, 2012

The Mayor posted the famous “I have a Dreamsicle” speech on Monday, August 26, 2006. That was some great website The Mayor had way back when, wasn’t it?

Five score years ago, a great American, Frank Epperson, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, invented the popsicle. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of fat children who had been eating nutritious and wholesome meals for hundreds of years. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But one hundred years later, the popsicle is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the popsicle is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the popsicle lives on a lonely cooler of poverty in the midst of 7/11’s and Korean owned variety stores. One hundred years later, the popsicle is still languished in the corners of American society and finds itself an exile next to Dickie Dee and various other ice-cream products. And so we’ve come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

We cannot suck alone.

And as we suck and lick, we must make the pledge that we shall always suck and lick ahead.

We cannot turn back.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold popsicles to be delicious, that all popsicles are created equal, even banana flavour, even though they truly tastes like shit”

I have a dream that one day on the dirty floors of all 7/11’s and Korean owned variety stores, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table and enjoy this amazing, cool treat.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi (and Georgia, and possibly New Jersey), a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of popsicle loving peoples.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their popsicle but by the content of their popsicle stick.

I’ll eat two popsicles today!

The Charge Of The Light Brigade Goes Urban

Friday, October 7th, 2011

Half a league, half a league, of Valu-Rite Vodka,
Half a league of cheap booze onward, yo
All in the valley of Compton
Rode the low rider:
‘Forward, bro!
Charge for the guns’ he said:
Into the hood
Rode the bloods and the crips.

‘Forward, bros!’
Was there a dawg dismay’d ?
Not LaDarius or Martel 
Some one dissed the colours, yo:
Theirs aint no how, nowhere, shit,
Theirs aint no reason, nowhere, shit 
Theirs but to pimp and chill,
Into the hood
Rode the bloods and crips. 

Glocks to right of them, 
Rugers’ to left of them, 
Marginalized youth in front of them
Where be my welfare cheque?;
Storm’d at the stock exchange,
Smelly hippies with no life,
Doing nuthin’ like the uselss swine, they is,
Into the midnight basketball courts

Rode the benefit hunters.

Food stamps in their right hand
packing heat in their left 
taxspenders and malcontents united,
Kill da man, yo! 
All the world wonder’d:
Plunged in the bong smoke
Right thro’ the line they broke; 
Enough energy to riot, just not to work. 
Reel’d from colonialism,
still feelings the effects.
Then they rode back, 
For more handouts, rode back in their Escalades, dat is. 

Glocks to right of them, 
Rugers’ to left of them, 
Marginalized youth in front of them
Where be my welfare cheque?;
Storm’d at the stock exchange,
Smelly hippies with no life,
Doing nuthin’ like the uselss swine, they is,
Into the midnight basketball courts

Left the benefit hunters.

When can their glory fade?
When austery is finally paid!
All the world wonder’d.
How we let these junkies plunder!
50% never pay a dime,
Hope & Change? Not this time!

An Ode To ZH

Thursday, August 25th, 2011

An ode to ZH, by Cognitive Disinflation

bitchez, bitchez – transitory riches
corrupted ratings, moodys and fitches
ponzi, fiat, lies to the masses
debt getting bigger soon to be crashes
house crash and squatting, mortgages in limbo
financial terrorists must end up in gitmo

secret spending, trillions in bailouts
big men, pigmen, filling their snouts
currency, cash, etfs or gold
tiz poker at ben’s table, raise, call or fold

wheel out the teleprompter – must lie some moar
Buffets got intel, he knows the score
too big to fail, too big to save
who beleives in the elliot wave
HFT, BTFD, which way to trade
watch out bitchez, thugs are coming to raid

insider trading, must be a mole
watch for Bernanke outta Jackson Hole
Chocozone collapsing, shorting is banned
It’s all GODS work says the Bald headed man

11-11-11 = Binary triple Six
APPLE, LULU, pilling into Netflix
You makes your choices – You make your pledges
All the people need to read Zero Hedges

Storing your GOLD in the United State Nation
leaves you open to GOV confiscation
GOLD to the moon says Mike Maloney
Will it happen or is that just phoney

Inflation, deflation tiz the end of a nation
All the elites will live on the space station

The all seeing eye is watching you
The capstone is coming but you already knew
count the bricks from 1776 – if you dare delve
The dollar tells you the end is coming, its in 2012

Open your eyes there is lots to see
Gold is money – paper is currency
paper paper everywhere, the helicopter is flying you better beware

Iphones and Ipads shuts up the masses
remember bitchez WATCH OUT FOR THE CRASHES

Poetry Corner

Wednesday, May 4th, 2011

You belong to the gods. Christians belong to Christ, but you, you may think yourself non Christian, but you really belong to one of the old ones. You belong, and membership has its privileges.

Lucky you. You don’t have to put up with Christian missionaries beating at your door, pushing Bible papers at you. There won’t be a Bible in your motel bedroom, either. And Christianity is freely mocked on television. You can direct hatred at members of a religious group, the Christians. These are you privileges. That is a lot of value, that would be very expensive to acquire at retail prices. What a great package deal you have made, already. You have already made a contract.


One From One Leaves Two

Monday, October 18th, 2010

J.M. Heinrich’s sure seems to know what blows The Mayor’s mind. Case in point:

Higgledy piggledy, my black hen,
She lays eggs for gentlemen.
Gentlemen come every day
To count what my black hen doth lay.
If perchance she lays too many,
They fine my hen a pretty penny;
If perchance she fails to lay,
The gentlemen a bonus pay.

Mumbledy pumbledy, my red cow,
She’s cooperating now.
At first she didn’t understand
That milk production must be planned;
She didn’t understand at first
She either had to plan or burst,
But now the government reports
She’s giving pints instead of quarts.

Fiddle de dee, my next-door neighbors,
They are giggling at their labors.
First they plant the tiny seed,
Then they water, then they weed,
Then they hoe and prune and lop,
They they raise a record crop,
Then they laugh their sides asunder,
And plow the whole caboodle under.

Abracadabra, thus we learn
The more you create, the less you earn.
The less you earn, the more you’re given,
The less you lead, the more you’re driven,
The more destroyed, the more they feed,
The more you pay, the more they need,
The more you earn, the less you keep,
And now I lay me down to sleep.
I pray the Lord my soul to take
If the tax-collector hasn’t got it before I wake.