Greeting Card Maker | Poem Art Generator

Enter Title (Not Required)

Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required
Floating frosty blue zoots, pin stripes and buster brown shoes, gangsters and loot, tommy guns full of red soot, knives in boots backstabbing, forward fronting, pay to play politics! Lindsay Hackett With her bloody emerald green ratchet, tool of the trade. Turns the screw. Always had one loose. She follows the empty suit, frosty blue. He cannot evade. Congressman out of session recess for the reprobates, a restaurant date, talking shop with pinstriped flops empty blazers, hazy and faded in frosty blue. Ties without a neck collars with no flip only an economic drip for the crowds outside who cannot afford a plate, She does not hesitate. She sits next to the button-down shirt. hears a joke so off colour it hurts, fuchsia static. transparent men with empty pens no ink to dry on sheets of promised goods and services blank bills, imposed rules in fuchsia static. overdue restitution and a long-winded filibuster that says nothing at all, over angel-hair pasta and twisted classist views lulling lullaby for the lopsided lucky few, who shape the future of the multitudes, and decides what is the truth. Lindsay Hackett swings her bloody emerald green ratchet. wraps a string of spaghetti gold around the wrists of the Plenty, The ones who have. She binds them to the table, binds them to the fable. empty suits destined to droop down to the floor in frosty blue exposing the truth for all to see, in total transparency. latent power brokers selling access to king makers and dynasties corruption upfront with elitism manufacturing malformed madness that demands democracy as a sacrifice. Lindsay Hackett with her emerald green ratchet Her lack of proper table manners And two suits tied to the slab in spaghetti gold. Fabricated names Conjecture and blame. Served lunch for a day’s wage. Waived fees substituted like sugar For a cup of ambition The meal’s free If you mention the restauranter’s name in the office spaces of the people’s house She opens her mouth. to say anything at all she can quote the presidents. and the policy makers the rights, freedoms, and responsibilities magna carta magnus opus in fuchsia static. Lindsay Hackett and her bloody emerald green ratchet Ups the ante on polite diatribes. Calibrate their skulls. To best receive her information Her consultation Free advice, costly salutations Perilous to shake hands with a wandering outfit, New to town, not real estate Melted beams of metal pooling at the bottom of walls, Pancaking dreams of the worker in feral amber. They were only there to erect the statement, The tower of the rich Name in gold What a grotesque situation. Small confidence, large ego Manipulation with cuff links And brass knuckles in red soot Punching out the lights along every street Of the North American Dream Island in a stream of sunlight They collapsed where they worked, Over toiled, over soiled Never able to rest in feral amber. The tool of the trade, a ratchet, or a spade Brandish them with the calloused hands of a builder in white forge. An engineer, not of social preferences, Not an influencer but an architect of civilization build the empire of equality. She strings the spaghetti lords together in spaghetti gold, Pulling them along to the edge of justice The lookout above the town. The open pit in iron violet. Dredge the heart, free the mind. She stands at the rim of the pit, iron violet, the Plenty bound behind her in spaghetti gold, their frosty-blue suits fluttering like torn flags in the updraft of consequence. Her ratchet clicks once — a sound like a verdict, a sound like a beam settling true in emerald green. No filibuster can drown it in fuchsia static. No cufflink can bribe it in red soot. No dynasty can rewrite it in frosty blue. The workers’ ghosts rise from the dust in white forge, calloused hands glowing like forge-steel, lifting the tools they dropped when the towers pancaked their dreams in feral amber. Lindsay Hackett raises her spade in emerald green, not to bury, but to build — a foundation cut from truth, leveled by justice, measured by the lives that paid the cost. And the Plenty finally see it: the empire they worshipped was never a monument — only scaffolding in iron violet. Only shadow in frosty blue. Only frost. She turns the screw one last time in emerald green. The world shifts in iron violet. The suits fall silent in frosty blue. And the pit answers back in white forge.

Enter Author Name (Not Required)