money-grubbing relatives
oozed out of the woodwork and the shadows of greed
when Josephine’s death was announced
distant cousins she had not seen for centuries
demanded to know if she had left them anything
their audacity was irritating to those close to her
who had been taking care of her for years before the end.
Your wealth could work against you
When those around you are there for it
Your early death is of inordinate benefit
They then serve to facilitate the ending
Those around are usually partners
In a life where one lives in communities
Siblings, relatives & partners stay around
Especially when the body gets weak with age
When those around fail to be true
You become source for money-grubbing
Even after they promote early earthly exit
Your legacy gets traded to sustain cupidity
Utility companies are unforgiving.
Relentless.
Mean.
Money-grubbing.
Nasty.
Then they add taxes.
Dirty coal tax.
Tuesday wash day tax.
Dog scratching tax.
Garbage day tax.
Always adding to your bill.
Never letting up.
I hate utility companies.
Others do too.
But can we eliminate them?
Apparently not.
I am a man with a plan,
A murderous heart,
I plan to rip out,
My x-wife's heart,
I'm going drive her to madness,
And bring complete sadness,
By involving people she thinks,
Are her friends,
Me and my family have agreed,
To do this ungodly deed,
We don't believe we'll get caught,
No one relizes our murderous hearts,
We are shallow and ruthless,
And money grubbing shabbness,
The tackiest of all,
Romes our halls,
We're going to make her loose everything,
Especially her kids that she loves so much,
The first one to go,
Is her daughter we just know,
How much it's going to demolish her,
And when we are done,
We'll steal her son,
And seperate her from the other daughter,
I don't like the fact that I had,
To pay her child-support,
I've got lifeinsurance,
And I plan to get it all back,
I'm the meanest man,
With the most cynical plan,
For revenge on the woman,
I never got over,
I never let go,
And I'm going to show her,
That I can be more brutal,
Then I was in our marriage,
And if by chance we do get caught,
I'll come up with a way,
To still make her pay,
Cause I'm the sickest,
Son of a gun in this town.
Blasted through the arteries of great wide open spaces
like fuel-injected bullets from some laser-sighted gun,
over-priced and deathtrap built, nothing cars to nowhere places,
trailing prisms of bleeding sump oil underneath the cooling sun.
From the money-grubbing fingers of a travel agent slaughter trip,
thrown a pitch in shadows of a power station pleasure park,
where sheep are glowing green at night with radiation flavoured dip,
the very soul of Mother Earth succumbs unto the leeching dark.
Rabble rousing bodies spill their flesh upon the mosaic floors,
a crunch of black sand sticky feet through hotel foyer abattoirs,
these patrons clutch at local maps, get lost inside revolving doors,
then dance around the nuclear core in plastic palm-tree disco bars.
A haemorrhage of bleeding skies damped down with streaks of sulphur grey
is fused onto the dark horizon by a deeper shade of red,
yellow bikini beachwear melts leukaemic on the judgement day,
the swallow cardiac arrests, the last of summer drops down dead.
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