state of the union (fat-cat and the devil)

there is a grubby little man

with grubby awful hands

and he wears a horrid

little hat and barks his sweet demands

his fingers reach like razor blades

into my pockets deep

and any coin

that I may have

above the ones they take

he puts into his pocket there

replaced with a drop of ink

the ink of men

whose little black letters

rattle in the dust

of contracts files

and paper clips

and rid the world of luck

this crooked little system

they all cooked up in here

keeps those like me

with hands on broom

or wrench

for eternity

and the tiny bit of cornmeal

at the end of each long day

just rattles in the old ribcage

while the eyes will drift away

and just like the end

the start of the day

is the rattle of the cage

and off to work

a sweet reprieve

the numbness of each new

day

there are whispered little promises

of the blossom of easier times

and the handshake man

in red white and blue

dances the devil in time

they waltz across

the salty floor

and think that we don’t see

but a love affair

as torrid as that

is as strong as the moon

to the sea

and the broken toys

that run this shit

are collecting bones to play

when we rise

there will be no ash

just blood as far

as the eyes can see

and the sour yellow canvas

will be hung above our beds

and this shitty world

the fat pigs made

will be painted crimson red

so yuck it up my pretty

while we play possum here

there’s a rumble in the

underground

with this weapon that all will fear

while the noises you think you contract

cover the forge of rusted steel

making the brutal toys we will employ

to carve you out of there

and when you are chained to that

big black chair

in the office of that old hill-top store

don’t cry for my help

when they carve you up

‘cause my pockets

are still

much too sore…

(you old fat mouthed

slob fucking boar…

……welcome to your pig-fucking war)