Grubsnakes

The way things have been going, lately,

Likely they ain't never going to be going, soon, at all,

Or if they are, maybe, for sure, going back-asswards, instead,

Going down the tubes, the crapper, Archie's "turlet,"

Going down for air, in a Mason diving bell-jar,

Going south, going hellbent for hell, in a thousand handbaskets,

Going, going, goner than gone with the winds of timed space.

And if things get any worse, for wear and tear on my derriere,

I might just have to call it quits, pull up grubsnakes,

With the grubworms of my shitty situation still wriggling on their lip tips,

Cry my Uncle Sam's Club white flag:

"Don't tread on my viper, my one-eyed fear-of-flying trouser worm,

Or it'll bite you, in your dick, spit in your COBRA plan's glass eye,

Maybe even mutter, snarl, 'No mas!,' 'Basta!,' 'Adiós, assholo!'"

OK, so I signed my illegal Juan Doe Handcock Don Juan,

Overstayed my stay, with two dozen ball-faced lies

My hot-to-trot lenders encouraged me to tell, with all strings detached,

Just so I could buy my greedy little piece of the hair pie, too,

In the American "Lucy in the Sky with Diehards" day-Dream.

OK, I'll admit forceclosure was a forgoing-going-gone conclusion,

But still, yet, none- and nevertheless, I ain't entirely to blame,

Even if, these days, me and the missus and my six kids

Are being ridden out of suburbia's Sprawl City, on an Amtrak rail,

Like tarred-and-feathered Brer Rabbits, Bears, Foxes, and Skunks —

Chump-change chumps forever believing, in first-shall-be-last places,

That if it looks and smells and feels and tastes like road-kill possum,

It can't possumably be a queen-bee Jesus in drag,

Out to grant amnasty to the evilest dudes in the Nazi ghetto.

All I know, with cumbaya pocks-be-on-your-woebiscum, is this:

Me and my brood are being blown away like a fart in a world-wind tunnel,

Sinking faster than Jimmy Hoffa in his plaster-of-Paris-Hilton boots,

Faster than a priest in a boys' summer camp of transgender semenarians,

Faster than George Bushleaguer in Iraq's MWD quagmire,

Faster than O'Bama in Afghanistan's Alice Wonderland's poppy fields,

Faster than America in its Red Ink Sea of Tea Partiers' pisspots.

Put it this way, if you can bend your head around it

(Oh, you know, you get it — your "head,"

The only thing we menkind got that unequals us from our women):

When you take away what we do best,

Separate us from our jobs, what's left for us, of us, among us,

But to take a hike, take a flying leap off the back of a galloping goose,

Take a dive off the Golden Gates, take ten stepsisters back and punt,

And in all dishonesty's otherworldly words, just say, "Fuck this shit!

America ain't all that it's ass-cracked up to be, ain't worth being beans!"?

In fact, the bull of goods it sold me and chump-changes like myself —

Us huddling-on-the-sidelines starving masses...

The Bull of Rights ain't got any Constitutional backboners,

In fact lacks the bullshitting Sitting Bull's balls, his testy gonads,

To mount a full-scale war against the hard-on in its pants,

The Iowa Jima flag it can't conceivably get up, on Mount Liberace,

Can't get erected, despite its Medicare/Medicaid Viagra supplements,

Can't even call it like it is, say, "You're fucked, fuckers!"

As they lead all of us grade-school vo-tech blue-collar geniuses

To assume our futures will be securer than flies stuck to flypaper,

If only we toe the rules, teach computers how to operate us,

So they can ship what's left of our grubsnakes to Made-in-China.

12/17/09 - (3)