They said I shouldn’t be angry,
I should simply go shopping,
perhaps take a pill, watch TV.
So I carved up my credit cards,
shot some Robitussin and rage,
put a harpoon through the Sony.
Then I led a march on Washington,
but all we saw were empty suits
bulging with Bibles and I.O.U.’s
we bluely burned for nighttime fuel
before Honest Abe’s dirty statue,
sudden screams of dreams
lurching into drunken nightmare.
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