A THEORETICAL GHETTO, ‘BRO’!
Nobody is my actual sisters’ brother except the three left from papa & mama’s rhumba womb
Pumpkin punks pointing to the pros and cons of blind faith in the theories of unelected bums
Who look out for their own as we all would but in evil ways, can’t change them, on a holy roll
Unafraid to pronounce words of any language, sounds meaning signs of being in a black hole.
Pole to pole, air, land and seven seas this spinning and wobbling is going to the God’s head
Psychiatric analysis of psycho-somatic trips of our mothers and fathers who dropped dead
To be or not to be here and now, the debate is between an idiot and a moron, droppin’ dimes
Pouring on the sugar whether cane or brown can bring utopian Ends before the good times.
Missing in action or just obliterated into flesh and bone dust, boys and girls died in world war
Battles to decide who is right and who is wrong, who is a reasonable not an illogical dinosaur
Come on man! Be the ball or you know what? Just get off of the court, sit on the back bench
Younger than ten, smaller than a human gnat, baby ghetto rats fulfill the white trash stench.
How many times would you prefer to go through the same motions to get the identical result?
If you live more or less than a hundred years you’re more fortunate than you know, it’s occult
You are bankrupt because you kept your parent alive and now your parent’s debt is your own
Where there’s a will, there’s a way, they shoot horses & this is one’s for the boys’ blown bytes.
For the memory I can’t recall because I forgot about “the thing” at childbirth, ah so traumatic
But you all know “The Thing” I’m talkin’ about, I am trying to signify the form of automatic
Pretenders coming ahead and behind me but that’s the nature of the beast, naturally you see
High or low priests who transform the miraculous into the mundane, carpet bombing spree.
Don’t be a doobie brother every time when it’s the Time and Space for listenin’ to the music
I am mixed and I am clearly the essence of constancy, an uncertainty principle of the sick
The tired of being and the idiot savants on radio waves who know it all, glasses fogged up
Blame it on the governor of your state, blame it on the doctor who advised the world’s cup.
Liars, cheaters, thieves who rule the roost from the eyes and ears of morons who speak smack
You know who you are, yeah you, reading this before you put it down, feeling so guilty Jack!
Put your mask on and shut your mouth up, fear the reaper as you always should have, moron
You’re the moron down mind’s ghetto, a nincompoop or goofball, you’re a number 1, 7th son!
by
r j j stephan, i
c. Mercredi, ROCKTOBER 7th, 2020 Anno Domini @ 10:10 AM Pacific Standard Time
{ Drafted while listenin’ to Van Halen jamz on youTube link @ https://youtu.be/Bg1UG0GwIKc }
FINIS
W.W.A.R.D.?
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