20 Jan. '09, if we survive 'til then,
Should demand sober reflection, not Party Time.
We have all sadly frittered away, eight long years,
Celebrating the same old routine, greed and slaughter,
Directed by dim, damn dilletanttos, with freaky fetishes.
Setting Sex aside, for the moment,
Let's pay some attention to the
Weather 'cause only
When/If we can 'stablize'
GHGW emissions = P.T.
Real Reductions = Fiesta!
If not, it'll happen over time, anyway.
The durational interval may involve much,
Weeping+Gnashing, but "Hey?
"Lock,I'm!" Right, Uzi Likudzi.
Imagine:
Bushtime has all been recess, standard Jr.
Sand-box Fables+Folly?
Hope that bell tolls soon, getting blustery.
Be nice, to be back, within any small structure?
"Ad hoc?" = NO Trials for us, secret trials, For YOU!
All, the wayalong, this tiresome, jizzum trail,
Driven by the Turd Bloss's Bosses,
Long, "Amour propre" gone berserko, Bobalooey.
Breath-takingly, careless, incompetent ignoramuses,
Lusting towards some phallacious Providence,
With all the cowardice they can bluster.
"None of 'em can run a beer sale, on a troop ship."
"Still, quite a ways from Abiline, eh Tex?
"Some of the boys were jus' askin'..?
(Some Gals there, don't treat you so mean)
Fearless? He jus' makes it up,
"Whatever!" Comes a'moseyin' along, l'il Doggies.
Kinda leaves a strange taste, yeah?
