Thinking about Jesus and apple pie,
How it hurts to think, and it’s dry
In the morning thanks to unimpeded,
Sun and lack of clouds and moisture,
Time is that chipping paint on the south wall
and termites and,
Frozen instances of comfort
That saunter about the mind,
What of my kind,
Hanging by blood smeared fingertips?
Where do we feed when it’s desolate?
On rewritten fabrications of plagiaries,
Promises copied from then to now,
Out of mouths that hardly imagine their lying,
Just trying to keep us in line with more,
Dressed down monotone radio diatribes,
From specialists advocating money for something more?
Something more than people, it seems,
And a few bucks is still a few bucks,
I’m dreaming of a few hundred thousands,
‘Cause I’m not greedy,
But man, it would sure be nice to believe,
There’s something down that road besides bleeding.