A lad is stopped by roving cops, who shoot in disregard.
His face is black, he’s on his back, a breeze is breathing hard,
He bleeds and dies, his mama cries, the screaming sky is scarred,
The sheriff and his squad at hand are laughing in the yard.
Bob’s wife’s in town, she’s broken down, she’s ranting with a fury,
Their baby coughs, the doctor scoffs, the snow is all a’ flurry,
Their life of sin has done them in, they skirmish, scrimp and scurry.
It’s getting late, Bob’s tempting fate, his choices cruel and blurry,
His midnight dreams are filled with screams, he knows he needs to hurry -
He chooses gas, they breathe their last, there’s no more cause to worry.
Per protocols near ivied walls arrayed in sage festoons,
The Countess quips, while giving tips, to crimson caped buffoons:
“To rise from mass to upper class, like twirly bird tycoons,
You stretch the treat you always eat, with tiny tablespoons”
A learned leach begins to teach (with songs upon a liar):
“Within the thrall of Satan’s call to yield to dim desire
Lie wicked lies that tantalize the flesh and blood Vampire;
Abiding souls with self-control in everyday Hellfire
Will rest assured, when once interred, in afterlife's Empire”.
The words, they weave the make believe, while slugs in salt expire,
Baptised in tears and rampant fears, all mirrored in the mire.
It’s getting hot on private yachts, though far from desert plains -
“Well, come to think, we’ll have a drink”, Sir Captain Hook ordains.
Beyond the blame and pit of shame, outside the Walled domains,
They pet their pups and raise their cups, take sips of pale champagnes
To touch the tips of languid lips with pearls of purple rains.
Well, Gypsy Guy would rather die than hunker down in chains,
Be ridden south with bit in mouth, or heed the hold of reins;
The ones that plot are in a spot, the boss man he complains:
“The gypsy soul, I can’t control, my patience wears and wanes;
They will not cede to common greed, one only way remains,
In boxcar bins, with violins we’ll freight them out in trains,
And in the bogs, they’ll die like dogs, and everybody gains.”
Arrayed in shawls with crystal balls, and gazing at the moons,
Wiled women tease with melodies and spooky loony tunes
While making toasts to holey ghosts on rainy day lagoons:
“Well, here’s to you and others too, embedded in the dunes,
Avoid the stares, avoid the snares, avoid the veiled typhoons
And fend your way as every day, ’gainst heavy heeled dragoons.”