Gold Statues
Gilded age of lies,
We all should take aim,
Ready,
You are fired,
Claim bankruptcy,
No money,
No problems,
No woman,
No cry,
No rhyme,
No battle,
No time,
No fate,
No sign,
Strange little men,
With their overstated strength,
And their negated wealth,
Substituted for stealth,
They climb the vines,
Sit up high, touch the painted sky,
Crack our spines,
We better work,
We better work,
It builds our freedom,
one cog, one spoked, toked dream at a time,
but I do not even have a dime,
Mr, can I borrow a fine,
I need to pay back the government,
For my cheese and cracker diet,
I ate too much privilege,
And had dessert,
Lemon meringue,
And coffee,
What a travesty to ask more than what they provide,
Cared for,
like a sister, a blister in the sun,
on the run,
from schools with guns,
Libraries are no longer fun,
when ducking between covers,
is it lord of the flies,
Or the wardrobe in the courtyard,
I do not have hope,
But he has a golden rope,
Or is it a whip,
Painting all our heroes in his likeness,
Pyrites and false riches,
He stands forth and spits,
I cannot take no more from agent orange,
Scribbling his Anglican name,
Across every blank space,
Trademarking the facts and selling them in stacks,
Racks of insults and nuked up truths, tweets, and twits,
Even his commode, he covered in gold,
While you scrape and scramble,
Fight over the gamble,
The gas prices soar,
while eagles drag themselves,
to the shores of fiscal faith,
Drowning in the profit margins of lobbyists,
Sergeant of disorder,
disinformation, and disfigured soldier of disdain,
cutting up a nation,
into segments of voter registration,
Which mapped district do you call home,
Try to write black lines on spreadsheets,
And you are papercut to the bone,
Atlas made for kings in the red line, red ties,
Between what is mine,
What is ours,
What is their power,
If we find any substance at all,
In threats piggybacking on proper etiquette,
We can reject status quo and change the show,
Our paths at our feet,
Stepping to the beat,
Patrolling the streets,
Looking out for the ones barely on their feet,
Wobbling to the discordant misery,
Walk in a straight line, one two three,
Turnstile dances and second chances,
His gold,
His gospel,
His grip,
His glare,
His name,
His claim,
His throne,
His tone,
His rule,
His ruin,
If you can stand the sight of society failing the needs,
Of yourself, your neighbour, your fellow un documented savior,
That man from galilee,
you state your authority, three times over,
Tell me about the riddle in the rhyme,
His name over time,
It morphs and it flows,
It ripples and it tows,
But ever have you entered his true abode,
Share with your brother, live forever,
But when profit over people,
Becomes the manifesto of the many,
It is merely a bourgeoise tyranny,
holding up the wealth in pipelines,
distributing one drop at a time,
to those whose tongues protrude,
Every time false idol golden statues,
Take shape nearby,
Molded out the aspiration,
of corruption,
I am not a believer,
but the metaphor is what I get up for
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