I would think? Its the stronger way to go..Buyers will always chase a good
Deal, and it negates more war damage
Just ' my feel ' thats what I would do, were
I Iran? $75 bucks a barrel, would be my plan ' Let market forces lead the way, a
Whole worlds economy.' Is whats at stake
I hear many pundits say.' Well let them
beat a path to Tehrans door' even if its overland as
Far as i last heard.? Basic sanity and maths ( have yet to be banned! )
Since you have been gone
A lot of water has passed under the bridge
A mixed bag of events have occurred
Leaving behind earth-shaking calamities
Difficult to quantify
As confusion like whirlwind
Keeps spreading and threatening
The very fabric of National Cohesion
Nobody knows what to believe anymore
As looters of our commonwealth
Keep spewing unbelievable theories
From two sides of their mouths
Shamelessly going back To their vomit of years gone by
To satisfy the cravings of their current masters
While citizens continue to wallow in abject poverty
Confused and traumatized
Where their next meals will come from
As their purchasing power has been eroded
By the demise of the national currency
Clubbed to death by inflation
And market forces
Never experienced in our chequered history
Every panic tell
A drop of trust is left to bleed
The transfusion is incomplete
Danger coming come
And then in an whisper recedes.
It was only rumor of his coming
I was not surprise
History is a movement of feelings
The way on enterprise dominates another
I think the market forces has quite
Worn their predictability out
The Mayan calender of twenty twelve
Is also a muted mouth
Someting is consolidating though
The beast about to be transformed
There will be no more bleating
Science cusping the reborn
Old habit
I just love looking up at the sky.
The chorus, a cacophony,
as gulls exploded
from the mudflats, on the estuary,
sleet, brain-numbing,
pelted a grey curtain;
with hands thrust deep, pocket jammed,
I felt like Richard Burton,
selling his soul to Hollywood,
not quite the same, though,
when all I sell is death
in Deadwood.
Here come my gulls, scavengers,
teenage patrons ever eager
as bad news messengers,
heads, sloth riddled beneath
baseball caps reversed,
their words, a streetwise patois
fluffed and stammered
badly rehearsed
but I always sense the gist.
There’s no excuse for me,
sedating kids,
passing bags of snow,
blank eyes fixed on the sea;
for all my delusions
cliché’s of market forces
customers, supply and demand
their snorting horses
once were wooden and rocked
not so long ago.
Within me deep
I know what I am,
no, I have no grand illusions,
I know I’m not the man,
not the myth from songs by
The Stones or the Underground,
just a bigger gull feeding
on the little gulls.
I’m no pharmaceutical saviour
in this seaside slum;
the man? I’m not a man
I’m just
scum.
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