I know, I suck at poetry.  But, as Charles Bukowski would have attested, sometime’s it’s all that comes out of you.  If it helps, read it like Mike Myers in So I Married an Axe Murderer.




Raised to work

Your job must define you

“What do you do?”

As if it really matters for most of us


Put your happiness aside

Earn the scratch

It’s all about the green


Taxes taxes taxes

Pay up

The generals need a few more bombers

And the bureaucrats, a $600 toilet seat


Buy buy buy

Shit you don’t need

Or really even want

Because the ad agencies told you to

Buyer’s remorse

At least makes your numb soul feel something


Collect plastic cards

Spiral into debt

Drink yourself stupid (spring for the good stuff)

Fill out the right papers

And it’s wiped off your conscious


Consume your ass off

You don’t want society to collapse


Do you?