The Pilgrimage
Someone plays an old guitar;
Someone else tells a story.
Somebody opens a bar.
Somebody talks of glory.
When you amble in any direction
Down a trail or a tree lined path
With some with carnal affection
Some with a grisly laugh
You end up in a space
A campfire warming a clearing
A refuge, a quiet place
Where the carnage is out of hearing.
Political blues
Is all in the news;
Maybe I’ll snooze
When it’s over.
Pass me the booze
Nothing to lose
Don’t want to live my life sober.
I never have said
I like people dead
Not overly civil or nice
Yet I often am prone
To live all alone;
After I’ve knocked off the mice.
Political blues.
Is all in the news;
Maybe I’ll snooze
When it’s over.
Pass me the booze
Nothing to lose
Don’t want to live my life sober.
New Doc Watson Blues
I rarely have prayed
For a place to invade
I don’t have to look for my prey.
When I bring lethal woes
To strangers and foes;
It’s how leaders all get through their day.
Political blues.
Is all in the news;
Maybe I’ll snooze
When it’s over.
Pass me the booze
Nothing to lose
Don’t want to live my life sober.
I might be the guy
Who murders a spy
In London or north Patagonia.
I may kill the man
Who runs Kazakhstan
Stifles his brood with ammonia.
Russian Spy
When you get our peepers on
X-ray Vegas tits and asses
Phony foamy silicon
Take them in with smoky glasses
When you use our special eyes
That peer though any lie.
You may not love your sad surmise
Like many another spy.
What are glittering smiles or money?
Ask the clowns who run the show.
Though truth can be absurd or funny
Sometimes, kid, there’s nothing to know.
Census
Half of our gentry is White
They look down at all from a height
If some aren’t too bright
And like to get tight
Whatever they do is all right
Most of them empty and dumb
Are glad to be out of a slum.
Drink coke and rum
Think they’re deep when they’re glum
And look upon others as scum.
They live on the surface in shallows
Where there’s nothing one values or hallows
They’ve feasted and supped
With the weak and corrupt .
They look like a bunch of marshmallows.
They treasure the crass and material .
They gobble down organic cereal
Once posh Ivy League
Now prone with fatigue
They think of themselves as imperial.
The other half whom they avoid
Since these shades make them scared or annoyed.
Do what chores must be done
While patricians have fun-
Work where no toffs are employed.
Whether fey or a rogue like King Kong
Do you adhere or belong
To an army of losers
Or decadent boozers
Who can say who is feeble or strong?
Baba Yaga
Deep in the snows
Where the sleet and the cold
Tombs a world no one knows
Sits Baba Yaga. She’s told
Her dun familiars tales
Of who comes to the dark waterfalls
Where all light fails.
In the dead-white halls
Of Satan’s palace, white on white
Where his princes drink mephitic brews
While he judges from a height
New rank and rotting human residue.
Who whine of terrors, hungers, losses
What they might have done with cash.
Most of them he easily tosses
Into a pile of scented trash.