To all mothers everywhere Why do you part your legs toward the 21st Centaury Didn’t you know That this is our final station Where the monkey sits and waits To collect For a debt that has long been owed? And he will never be denied payment. That fateful stop is always present. This is the city where the projector always runs And all the jokers perform For an indifferent audience. Maybe we should have planned our escape Before the monkey smiled Instead of wandering like dumb beasts That serve as an exhibit on some distant safari Under the burning glow of industry. Industry, Yes it gave us the TV and black lung. And Yes we should be grateful What other system allows you to own a Statesman? Or Pay for the right to soil your water Or Blacken someone else’s? How else can you explain the waters’? And this century’s Taste of curdled milk That sits in some hoarder’s fridge Waiting for the next great war. Everything that blooms In the forest where we once played Is consumed Immediately Now a days. On America Which is the land of the disposable hero And disposable victim Where do you think your babes will land? The hoarder? The fool with a loser’s dream? The second storey man Who suddenly finds a good job beating tenants For some cheap landlord Whose smile hides a felony? Or the industrialist who wallows in his moneyed hole Or grows fat feeding on the blue collar? Maybe the hero will be torn apart for touching the wrong ass Only to fade from the television to reappear on those pages set aside for those who overstayed their welcome? And did you think you could Swim in this ocean of equations? This is elemental my dear. The only outcome when you try to defy these waters Is a riptide that will pull you under? What role do you really think you will play? We all move like fish swimming in tumultuous waters But too many of your babes think Like a family stuck in heavy traffic Crying that they are going nowhere. This is where the deals are made to move on and the monkey shits himself laughing It’s called bad luck. 2 Mothers everywhere Listen The grinder box is growing louder In the voice of antiquity. Don’t you hear it over the gears of the midnight carousel. The monkey won’t be moving from window To window collecting change So, you better teach your babes to dance And dance well And accept their names As born schmucks, Or perish by them. The role of the new grinder monkeys Is for those born into an already spent life. Didn’t you know things tend to unravel at the worst time? But when is there a good time? After all All the celebrations have ended. The holidays have been cancelled this year According to the 12 O’ clock news. The sold president claims we can’t afford them And he suggests flagellation As a replacement to a day off. This is what happens when the doors to Bellevue swing open The lunatics cast their vote Just before med time. And this is why the birth you now inflict On the new blank generation Is a celebration in itself Of turning Your sacrifice to the loaded hour Where the party of martyrs Continues. 3 Finally Under the sour winds That blow in the coming shadow Of the kakocracy Nothing grows But the desert That brings dry dreams of your children. But at least your sheets are clean.