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The Blue Route


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March 18, 2018


Hopscotch Chant

Hinky Jinky, Stinky Pinky The One Percent will play. Squirrelly Shirley Hurly Burly In the full light of day. Hop them, bop them; You can’t stop them. They’re never going away. Crying, trying, always lying, They count on your ignorance. Hinky Jinky, Stinky Pinky Wham bam, thank you man. Daffy, laffy, slappy happy. What’s the

Bad Kid

I know I am a bad kid, Things I did were awful So I deserve every slap, Every punch, every insult Like “little bastard” and Son of a bitch. Everything. Call me what I am as I Have been appallingly bad As a child, as an offspring, An embarrassment to you. Show me that ugly

Sons of Sodom

Scoundrels and rascals All decked out in pastels And Brooks Brothers suits With cuff links to boot And five hundred dollar ties Thinking that makes them wise; Just one of the rich guys And nobody to question them, Never harrumph or an ahem Because they are above it all, No boring trips to the mall

Poverty 1,2,3

Smoking butts from ashtrays And twice-cooked coffee grounds, Bumming coins from my neighbors And searching for change on the ground. Mayonnaise sandwiches daily And buying ramen by the case I switched from Coke to iced tea. I like the difference it makes. Being poor is a decision I made It affects virtually everything I do.

This Is Sin

Chaining any people Beating them with whips, Reducing their existence To ugly racist quips. Treating them as cattle And selling them the same Is horror of the highest stripe And is nothing like a game. This is sin. Using sales people to lie And bring people here Then making them slaves For a long period

Almost Taps

I am sharing this opus It’s more of an onus Of just how things went But were not really bogus. I earned my life lumps Racing over speed bumps Trying to outrun cards dealt That were not quite trumps. Still I made it this far And while I’m not a star I suited and showed

Call To Battle

Fools blather about the glory of the fight And don’t hear the mothers crying at night. The wives of those marauders on the roam Cry because their husbands can’t come home. The children of these battle-addicted men Go away, eyes ashine, never to return again. And still the moneyed few, urge on toward Yet those

What’s In A Name?

Pantywaist, This shows no taste. Light in the loafers, Maybe for gofers. Squats to pee, Who? Not me! Limp-wristed, It’s twisted, maybe. Sissy and sissified, Maybe somebody lied. Fag and faggot, You’re a bigot. Bigass Fruit, Zoot and all root. Tuttifruity, Call to gay duty. Half a man, Sometimes better than. Tinkerbell, Go to hell.

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