It’s not too late, son
But we really gotta book
It here, you maniac
I’ve no longer any interest
In fucking with these fluky amateurs
These kicked-and-tired leaders
Looking so goddamn resolute
And content
While they’re sucking down
Eighty-dollar lobster tails
By the slippery dozen
Slurping up the juices
Slopping down red wine
Tiny bits of lobster floaters
In the glass
But it doesn’t matter
It’s on to the macho
Steak knife slicing
Into the perfect medium-rare
Filet, itself ripped from the worked-over
Hides of the applauding public
Which would shit into a bucket
And drink it like a rainwater milkshake
If it meant their beloved country
Would survive the night, which is
Good intentions, good intentions
Anything we’ll do, fucking anything
Just you gotta stop fucking around
These lies, this wholesale raping
Of everything
Don’t tell me it’s in the name
Of US, because it’s not
And watch yourselves soon
There’s something truly beautiful
Spinning in manic circles
Its anger smoldering
Underground for now
But it’s coming, it’s coming
For you