We're poets now not assholes, though the jerkoff part's not done
so, I 'Walter Mitty' do-over, becoming the ode man I were all along
we're deep thinkers today, not shallow, our ways of error are gone
so, no longer now may I fantasize, that not doing right isn't wrong
'Tis exactly what I wanted
to see our end game thus evolved,
two incorrigible rascals well forked
competitive twin war now resolved
No longer are we pinned down
by moves which broke the rules,
we're here truly settled in stalemate
how happily I resign with the news!
The end is coming, no chance to stop it
Sooner or later the kings and queens fall
Chess pieces moving, time limit waning
Play on my friend to the last bugle call
Last moves are pending, no way to dodge them
In the long run there is but one short straw
Chessmen attacking, cutoff point looming
Finish the game and let's call it a draw
Don't want to know or need to know, what's flying up my chute
the answer doesn't matter and the end result 'tis mute
If I have it, I'm a goner, regardless still of when and where
if I don't, I'm extended, and for me that seems quite fair
My existing time's important, worry yet doth drape my choice
but money spent to know for sure feels like a worser noise
It's my life, it's my death, I'm just juggling destiny as I please
perhaps I've over looped you, binding thou to my disease
Life is a game of diminishing returns
An hourglass of sand flowing down night and day
The top bulb for birth and the beauty of youth
The lower bulb represents death and decay
The amount a man gets is up to the stars
An unseen yet all-knowing outcome of fate
The volume of sand and how fast the grains fall
Only destiny knows how much and the rate
Life is a game of horizonless fortunes
A lottery ticket doled out at no cost
The numbers pop up in a haphazard way
Most wagers wash out but with all fingers crossed
A rock and a hard place
'tis damned if do, damned if don't
eggs interfacing with shameful scapegoat
A nice guy finishing last
no sense of self, no common awareness
weeds in the wind o'er last hope for fairness
A mistake warned Lincoln
trying to please everyone all of the time
calls zero who care 'pon thin, valueless dime
The world is full of assholes
Not to mention crusty cunts
Raring hustlers all the way
High-and-mighty reckless runts
The world is full of halfwits
Not to mention eager jerks
Scrappy comers one and all
Simpleminded grocery clerks
The world is full of dickweeds
Not to mention snakes and skunks
Gung ho live wires to the end
Self-assertive pushy punks
It's as plain as ringing bells
Chiming crystal clear the call
Every man must face the end
See the writing on the wall
It's as grim as blood and guts
Proving interim the haul
Every man must face his death
Heed the writing on the wall
It's as sure as dawn to dusk
Making evident the fall
Every man must face the truth
Trust the writing on the wall
Critical thinking means having an open mind
a brain that can learn all new facts in good time
a head which discerns fake from real non-fiction
a thinker quite able to weed out contradiction
Critical stinking 'tis judgmental and cruel
seeing in thought that the others are tools
believing opinions contain honest, pure truth
behaving as do arrogant, egotistical fools!
There is no stopping them
The lost and never found
They bob like bloated turds
Their reason deeply drowned
There are cerebral souls
Minds open, clear and sound
Freethinking human beings
Feet planted on the ground
There is no swaying them
No turning them around
Thick toxic horned lizards
Pinheaded pound for pound
There are enlightened ones
Skins red, white, black and brown
Seeking truth in science
And never backing down
As a literacy affirmer I cannot accept the cold ignorance of science deniers
a stubborn mule's a most useless tool, rejected fact makes the donkey a liar
To keep on believing in old God myths, 'tis a slop feast of hogwash for dogs
if human beings all get on page one, we'll fly over dumb, shortsighted bogs!
I squawk as a chicken with an egg in her vent
squeezing like a con man mid grift
I'm stuck on a stanza without any portent
still channeling my muse for a lift
I struggle like a dirt tire spinning in sand
scrambling to first arrive 'pon the line
I'm crashing and burning as a major ode wreck
yet my muse tells me everything's fine
I long to be published, paid well and heard
dreaming hard about my place at Bard's table
I'm hoping my pipe mare becomes a reality
while my muse says I'm perfectly able
