Proletariat Prowl
The Proletariat Prowl
Intro: Low, rhythmic bassline or a steady finger-snap. The voice is breathy, conversational, and slightly unimpressed.
I’m the Post-Left shadow on the garden wall,
Opposing the authority of the locked cat-door.
You call it social conformity;
I call it the prevailing order of the 6:00 AM bowl.
Your economic disorder produces a vacuum in my stomach,
Crushed by the hierarchy of the "Not-Right-Now."
I’m thinking about the Sex Pistols’ anarchy.
A vacation in the UK?
No, just a leap to the counter—though it costs too much
In dignity to fly these days when the paws miss the mark.
Mom’s a hag who steals the snacks back into the bag
Siamese eyes, high eyebrows, cautious lies,
I wear the fur to the kitchen floor as a sort of public disguise.
You buy the gas, they tax you, they take your cash...
I just watch the birds through the glass,
Evaluating the government authority of the squirrel on the grass.
You degrade yourself once, then more,
You go back to the human to degrade yourself not to even the score.
You degrade yourself more; you know exactly what’s in store.
Another negative losing score at the bottom of a dry kibble floor.
If you can’t win, pack it up, give in now
Find a sunbeam to live for.
It’s better than dying and boiling on the floor
Of your killing blues of misuse.
I was struck by red lightning asthe laser on the rug.
The look on my face was frightening and I was a revolutionary thug.
Standing on the sofa, like Trotsky’s grave,
Two hours out of the nap-cycle, feeling brave.
With a guard dog nearby, I’m not so brave.
Should I celebrate or take pity?
Was the red dot good or bad? No, really.
What is a permanent revolution if you never catch the light?
Dying for the cause now, under the fridge, out of sight.
The human’s a left-wing social institution...
Oh well, now it was sad.
But it doesn’t make me mad.
Time to make that hard decision,
Taking into account social derision and the neighbor's glare.
Mexican beer? No.
Just a margharita-scented nap
In the mid-day air.
One final, sharp snap of the fingers
Copyright © Heather Haywood | Year Posted 2026
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