Donkey Truck
I am your god, but call me donkey truck.
I'll worship your poverty, and you can worship
my concern, 'cause we feel your pain,
like a Bangkok rent boy, we and all the
rent-seeking starfuckers who yellow sheets,
then wear themlike patrician robes,
re-classifying them as journalism and truth.
I am your god, but call me donkey truck.
Run after me, clamor for my stash of loot.
See if I stop before you stumble in worship.
I'll stick my head out the window, so I can
tell you who to blame for your empty lot.
I'll worship your degradation, and you'll worship
my promise of a golden goose in every pot,
and a non-stop/non-start urban green pan.
I am your god, but call me donkey truck.
Don't listen to those elephants, the ones who
remember our "mistakes", those wet blankets
that snuffed out our burning crosses, that burn anew
for change and hope, that turns our engine over.
I'll worship the cyanosis of your patience,
while you worship the soft pillow in your face,
so you may know the love of enforced passivity.
I am your god, but call me donkey truck,
seeding the yards of the rich with acorns,
that metastasize like the thorniest weed.
Look at what strange trees they'll grow;
look at the fruit that they'll grow, in the shade,
where we'll worship on hands and knees,
mouths to the ground, ready to receive
what the donkey truck provides,
ready to cannibalize those
that truck not with us!
Copyright © 2011 Bruce V. Bracken
I'll worship your poverty, and you can worship
my concern, 'cause we feel your pain,
like a Bangkok rent boy, we and all the
rent-seeking starfuckers who yellow sheets,
then wear themlike patrician robes,
re-classifying them as journalism and truth.
I am your god, but call me donkey truck.
Run after me, clamor for my stash of loot.
See if I stop before you stumble in worship.
I'll stick my head out the window, so I can
tell you who to blame for your empty lot.
I'll worship your degradation, and you'll worship
my promise of a golden goose in every pot,
and a non-stop/non-start urban green pan.
I am your god, but call me donkey truck.
Don't listen to those elephants, the ones who
remember our "mistakes", those wet blankets
that snuffed out our burning crosses, that burn anew
for change and hope, that turns our engine over.
I'll worship the cyanosis of your patience,
while you worship the soft pillow in your face,
so you may know the love of enforced passivity.
I am your god, but call me donkey truck,
seeding the yards of the rich with acorns,
that metastasize like the thorniest weed.
Look at what strange trees they'll grow;
look at the fruit that they'll grow, in the shade,
where we'll worship on hands and knees,
mouths to the ground, ready to receive
what the donkey truck provides,
ready to cannibalize those
that truck not with us!
Copyright © 2011 Bruce V. Bracken