The fiery orator would’ve been in his grave, rotisserie.
Appalled at the state of the free world. My house specifically.
Hairs on neck erect,
needles on your average Black Forest Tannenbaum Christmas Tree.
Speaking of the devil, the plaster innards of my domicile were ablaze,
Friendly fir peppered with lights of various hues,
No popped corn lassoed ‘round,
Just ornamental intrinsic from days of yore clutching limbs like blue jays.
Even El Duce’s animated addresses proclaiming racial purity,
Never talked about mick, a spik, camel-jockey, and kyke,
United like wasps. Buzzed.
Sharing the joy of the grape, toasting the Axis Powers’ fade into obscurity.
There isn't a mission. There isn't a goal. It's just words on fake paper, sliding and tripping and flowing all over the place, because we're all full up on words in here and there is no way we can keep them inside. Like Tony says, "Nothing in here is true."
Sunday, December 25, 2005
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