On Success (as poor as Croesus)
I want success, a clingstone peach,
Wind storm feather I can always reach,
My absent foot prints strong as steel
And Rumpelstiltskin’s spinning wheel.
And all the gold that I can’t feel
That comes from substance I can steal,
They say it’s fake but I know it’s real
My fist is closed, let’s make a deal.
Let’s cut a deal, let’s deal from the bottom
We’re both big deals, we both got ‘em.
I meet germs on my terms
Get rid of useless funeral urns.
Forget about going there
To see eyeless, faceless, unknowing stares.
I’ve no use for Goya’s vision
Just fried chicken and a television.
But without experience you can’t understand.
What does that have to do with man?
Nothing more an’ nothing less
It’s down the toilet an’ give it a rest.
Tomorrow is another day
Its all for the taking along the way.
One percent truths are enough.
If you fake the right stuff.
I’ve read it all in a book I wrote.
On every page a perfect gloat.
The senseful sounds can’t be heard.
The senseless, the dominant herd.
Exclusion is the rule.
Everything is a tool.
Everything is for sale,
The last truth, the last whale.
Mounted steeds tell the tale.
White, red, black and one most pale.
Guaranteed from the start to fail.
No get-out-free card from that jail.
Oh prick my conscious with a rusty nail
The gnashing of teeth and a wail.
The renting of good in a pail
Thrown in the air returns as hail.
Rejoice the vipers as I tread
For I cannot be truly dead.
“Miss Jean Louise stand up
Your father is passing.”
Success can be an empty cup
Started in the first asking.
“Miss Jean Louise stand up
Your father is passing.”
Success always comes
In the first asking