I pawn my prayers for a handful of hunger and the clerk calls it salvation.
One's halo's on hire purchase cracked chrome still sticking on the devil's desk.
I trade mercy by the minute marked down,moth eaten!,mislabeled as hope.
My heartbeat haggles with hell drumming debt into my desperate dawns.
My tears come with interest,each drop a receipt stamped *Final Hell.*
The Spirit goes AWOL on paydays,replaced by plastic faith and payday psalms.
Heaven's door has a coin slot but my pockets cough only dust.
I'm a ghost on consignment groaning in gospel tones for one more breath of grace.
Angels appraise my agony and cry,"too used,too human,too late."
I sing in chains proud and penniless,a prophet of pawned redemption, my soul on layaway.
An elephant asked her for a massage
She said, You’re huge; we will use the garage
That massage took three ladies
Who had very fine paydays
Not to mention the wildest troi menage
The month has ended and paydays here
for all who waited their monthly cheer
When some will say they're always broke
when spending money's daily hope
That those who spend in just one day
will say that money's meant for play
When debts go by for passing time
and governed earned are parties chime
Short weekends and long weekdays
School’s out then it’s onto résumés and workdays
Mondays dragging on through to Fridays
Long commutes on highways, subways and tramways
Toiling for okays, some praise and hopefully a raise
Soirees and negligees for Saturdays
Aspiring to bouquets so enchanting in a vase
Before you know it’s on for matinees on Sundays
Enjoying soufflés, sorbets, sundaes and parfaits
Eyeing the calendar for paydays
As well as birthdays, holidays and getaways
But nowadays, as retirees, we have our days
And often we just graze in haze almost a daze
Where Tuesdays look no different than Thursdays
To paraphrase it’s our final phase when interplays
In many ways the sweet nostalgia of yesterdays
AP: 3rd place 2020
I miss those
Morning grass underneath my feet
Or listening to lifetime stories on repeat.
I ask you, my son,
Where has that all gone?
I miss that
Wind flying pass my fingertips
Bubbling pancakes ready to be flip'd.
My son,
Where has that all gone?
We care more about
Baribe dolls strutting down runways
Doing whatever we can for our paydays.
White screen causing eyestrains
Watching the growth of Kim K's vain.
Cry for the pain brought from hurricanes,
Cry for the bombing of others terain.
There are way more,
Way more that matters,
Not people's selfish patterns.
I miss those,
Night time walks,
Or those grandma talks.
My son, I ask you,
Where have they all gone?
Obsolete is the byword
that keeps us buying anew,
products that last forever
simply would never do.
Paydays come in many forms
some junk is another’s treasure,
so creating problems to be solved
makes sense by the repairman’s measure.
There are industries of industry
who perpetuate themselves,
flooding markets with one thing
keeping others on the shelves.
This breeds the disingenuous cause
of saboteurs and fixers,
spawning each other endlessly
pitting inventors against the nixers.
Exhaust pipes made of mild steel
rust out and fail routinely,
planned obsolescence creating need
proving the point supremely.
Somewhere somebody is planting a bug
in my computer or my lung,
where a technician or a doctor
gets paid to see it undone.
And somewhere somebody is saying a prayer
to stop this insanity,
of misguided and opportunistic
cannibalization of ingenuity.
Walk in the door
Tables scream opportunities
Is this the best solution
Best possible income for those with degrees
Seems so wrong
work soo hard behind a desk
Supposed to come out of top
Somehow you're at the start making minimum wage at best
We're told it's not what your country can do for you
But what you can do for your country
When your country outsources jobs for the bottom line
Loyalty and respect are no longer part of the design
Relationships are 50/50
This doesn't add up
I work hours and hours
What do you do?
Criticize how I do my job
Complain how profits are down..
Sob Sob Sob.
I don't want to hear it
Can't say you didn't see it
If they said they'd care
I'd never believe it
Its all a faux trust cloud
They want you to follow without a doubt
Give me bonus or commission
I don't want a gold star, this isn't cub or girl scouts.
I'll get pleasure watching this CEO run this into the ground.
When everyone is shocked they're fired on black Friday
I'll be starting a new business giving me endless paydays.
take, take, who’s on the make? and do some
people have a vested stake?
now tax is surely a painless way, to right
whole countries and save the day,
if medals are struck as some time they may
in honour of those who have made the way,
and what will the legends and letters say
as Ireland and Greece go down the slide,
and Portugal's on a roller coaster ride, (doctors)
have made provision for this long haul way,
no more to boom! It’s bust, bust, bust, so the interest
pillow is a dead cert must! but have our saviours’ today,
managed to saddle still salvageable
economy's into a hundred years of H P paydays..?
© Joe Maverick 31-1-2011
for Carolyn Devonshire's (taxing times contest)
Her name came from her native heritage from the Navajo Tribe
I got this story because I offered her a bribe
She works at McDonald's as a shift leader
Her boyfriend, dropped out of school after the 6th grade, he goes by the name Skeeter
They take their showers with the laundry soap Dash
She has such a negative attitude, can't afford to change her native name Sourmash
Her boyfriend loves her for the free food and on her paydays
He has one shirt, the Toronto Blue Jays
They live in a singlewide, Wikipedia trailer trash
The deep love shared between Skeeter, McDonald's and Sourmash
She just bought her first VHS tape, the mini series Roots
Skeeter owes three more payments on his cowboy boots
Skeeter has Sourmash convinced she is a direct descendant of Koonta Kinte'
They sit and watch the movie as they eat their dinner on McDonald's meal trays
The carpet is stained red with Piggly Wiggly brand hot sauce
After drinking some Mad Dog 20/20 grape, Sourmash brags to Skeeter how at McDonald's she's the boss
They are convinced the laundry soap is giving them a rash
Good luck in your future with Skeeter, poor, poor Sourmash
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