Warm Gun Ovation
Thermal combustion is fine for the masses....
Oh, by the way, our Gov. shutdown was a dumbshow
ruined by imbecilic words—Shakespeare is spinning
in the ground, with dirt and world-wary worms—
It foretells nothing now; except, each year, last year's
stage production of division is recycled and branded anew.
Oh... the drama of budgets and non-bawdy bad banter
playing out by played-out, half-human hand puppets.
They don't entertain, like a French farce, and yet you can't
―jerk them offstage.
So, it's the real life casualties of this Congressional boxing
whose everyday misfortunes cock my warm gun.
A salvo is coming, a volley is due―my sort of ovation,
the clapping of bullets to skins―boldly shot from every
concerned, enthusiastic corner of proletarian commonwealth.
Up jump, sat-upon strugglers! Come fist and foot into the air!
No voice, alone, can make lightening and thunder enough.
Our daily viands must now be blood and limb of them
who bake cakes from our hard-earned flour.
Let us eat the elected few who leave our sides,
to eagerly join the isolated bubble branch.
