Vice Verses

The Spunky Monkey

O burden of desire,

absurdly spinning tire,

perhaps you deem it neato

to be cursed with libido;

you’ll come like a volcano

until you go insane-oh.

You were born to belch forth sperm

from your shelter-seeking worm.

Reproduction is your lot

whether you approve or not.

Like an alpine palomino

running wild through a casino,

you’ll never quench your thirst

even if you choose to burst.

That’s the plight of living things

seized by unforgiving wings.

 

Your Garden-Variety Psychopath du Jour Accepts the Latest Nobel Peace Prize Issued from a Vending Machine

I’d like to thank

the fine young suits

who helped me rob the bank.

Who knew that we were in cahoots

until we’d filled the tank

and driven the rig

right off the cliff

like a spit through a pig,

like a vanishing spliff?

We said, “Don’t wait for smoking

guns; they might be mushroom

clouds.”  Did you get hurt?

Well, we had fun.  We felt your pain

and bowed.  It’s natural to clap

for those who operate the switch,

and nervously guffaw at jokes

while falling in a ditch.

You waited longer to fight back

than you thought wise to do.

All ready for the next attack?

Here comes–so long, adieux.

 

Welcome to the Asylum

Our padded walls without windows

are just the thing you need.

Refreshing pharmaceuticals

to keep your brain in shape.

We celebrate your essence,

salute obedience!

And should you feel upset 

about your pesky losses,

we’ll tighten up your straitjacket

and make you miss your bosses.

That’s life here in the madhouse

of human happiness, where blades

of grass stand stiff as steel, 

like soldiers’ bayonets, and

helicopters loom and swoop,

detecting grumbling tummies.

We’ll throw you in the dungeon now,

so whimper for your mummy.

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