A Poem for the zeroes
See the old man on the park bench
With newspaper underwear
Against the cold
Who cares old man
Who cares
See the guy
Home from war
Staring blankly,
Red rimmed tortured eyes
Pigeons
At his feet
One shod with skin
The other steel
Who cares
One less soul
Ruh Roh
We battle the forces of the lizard brains, you see them every day. They tattoo their empty souls on the world. You can feel their little probes tickling your amygdala until you can hardly see what really is. They entertain you with pretty colors and empty words blinding you to what you really are and what is possible. They crush your spirit, steal your soul, still the music that you are made of. Don't be afraid, don't fear, you are safe in the arms of the cosmic dreamer. He laughs at these little things knowing their aspect as just another road one could choose. We don't need a book or many books or a universe of printed words. We don't need anything to gain the secret
beauty, it is an inside job.
Frank 's Got The Right Idea
Whoever we are
Wherever we're from
We shoulda noticed by now
Our behavior is dumb
And if our chances
Expect to improve
It's gonna take a lot more
Than tryin' to remove
The other race
Or the other whatever
From the face
Of the planet altogether
They call it THE EARTH
Which is a dumb kinda name
But they named it right
'Cause we behave the same . . .
We are dumb all over
Dumb all over,
Yes we are
Dumb all over,
Near 'n far
Dumb all over,
Black 'n white
People, we is not wrapped tight
Nurds on the left
Nurds on the right
Religious fanatics
On the air every night
Sayin' the Bible
Tells the story
'N makes the details
Sound real gory
'Bout what to do
If the geeks over there
Don't believe in the book
We got over here
You can't run a race
Without no feet
'N pretty soon
There won't be no street
For dummies to jog on
Or doggies to dog on
Religious fanatics
Can make it be all gone
(I mean it won't blow up
'N disappear
It'll just look ugly
For a thousand years . . . )
You can't run a country
By a book of religion
Not by a heap
Or a lump or a smidgeon
Of foolish rules
Of ancient date
Designed to make
You all feel great
While you fold, spindle
And mutilate
Those unbelievers
From a neighboring state
TO ARMS! TO ARMS!
Hooray! That's great
Two legs ain't bad
Unless there's a crate
They ship the parts
To mama in
For souvenirs: two ears (Get Down!)
Not his, not hers (but what the hey?)
The Good Book says:
"It's gotta be that way!"
But their book says:
"REVENGE THE CRUSADES . . .
With whips 'n chains
'N hand grenades . . . "
TWO ARMS? TWO ARMS?
Have another and another
Our God says:
"There ain't no other!"
Our God says
"It's all okay!"
Our God says
"This is the way!"
It says in the book:
"Burn 'n destroy . . .
Repent, 'n redeem
'N revenge, 'n deploy
'N rumble thee forth
To the land of the unbelieving scum on the other side
'Cause they don't go for what's in the book
'N that makes 'em BAD
So verily we must choppeth them up
Or stompeth them down
Or rent a nice French bomb
To poof them out of existance
While leaving their real estate just where we need it
To use again
For temples in which to praise
OUR GOD
("Cause he can really take care of business!")
And when his humble TV servant
With white hair
And a brown suit
And maybe a blonde wife who takes phone calls
Tells us it is okay to do this stuff
Then we're supposed to do it,
'Cause if we don't do it,
We ain't gwine up to hebbin!
(Depending on which book you're using at the time . . . Can't use theirs . . . . . . it's all lies . . . Gotta use mine . . . )
Ain't that right?
That's what they say
Every night . . .
Every day . . .
Listen, we can't really be dumb
If we're just following God's Orders
After all, he wrote this book here
An' in the book it says:
"He made us all to be just like Him," so . . .
If we're dumb . . .
Then God is dumb . . .
(An' maybe even a little bit ugly on the side)
DUMB ALL OVER
A LITTLE UGLY ON THE SIDE
DUMB ALL OVER
A LITTLE UGLY ON THE SIDE
DUMB ALL OVER
A LITTLE UGLY ON THE SIDE
DUMB ALL OVER
A LITTLE UGLY ON THE SIDE
fz-