Can't Fix Stupid
Eyes turned to sky
Slip your watch from your wrist
Then close my fist, blow a kiss, say
"Oh dear how time does fly"
And while you see the white space on your skin where your time briefly occupied,
While the cogs of your brain slowly grind
I help myself to a slice or four of your pie
Right from out under your nose
As to why I say why what what why,
you're high and that's a liberal lie,
say the same thing, in repeated moans
Til I spill untold millions of my spawn
In your girl's "for chirch only" panty hose.
Don't believe your lying eyes,
Abide and await the new dawn,
here's a sign for your lawn,
Be the king you are, but for now play the pawn.
Here's a link to deposit your power,
To bring us nigh upon the hour.
Got the time? Never mind I forgot I have this new watch,
oh lookie here how the ticks have tiocked,
Give it ten then check your crotch,
It's the feminists bruh that ripped off your cock.
I never listened to a single thing my elders ever said,
But I guess that I did after all
Cuz I remember this,
It was directed at me from my ancestors to my daddy's lips,
It was "Son, I can fix your bike but I can't fix stupid"
While you march with your signs,
dispensing goodie grab bags of threats,
Conjured from unholy union of toxic air in your minds and cherry-picked religious text,
Somehow descrating a thing never holy.
Come now and see this denuding, flaying, neutering, spaying, strip-mining , pocket lining,
regarding whole mountains of both rock and of words,
as so much interfering cock-blocking waste,
While cooking up schemes to make a half from a third,
and lush valleys serve as convenient latrines, making haste to extract a few glittering flakes, then seeking out plots of flesh for your stakes.
The questions only of efficiency of ways cheapness of means
Decadently dining on all the things that crawleth, creepeth and flyeth and swimeth
and writheth, slitherith, climbeth, boumdeth and any and everything that might be a witness,
To put the lie to your claims you're guiltless and sinless, that your acts with your knives are for national fitness
Of your defleshing of ducks,
(As you do with the mountains and valleys and Rivers)
Discarding as yoir lifelong shadowy nemisis
everything of it and the the last dying twitching of your final two fucks
"Raze dance halls, raze libraries, raze theatres,
Bury the bodies, move out the trucks!"
The momster is brown is gay, is black, is weird, is queer,
The foe is an emasculatimg dick rottng cultural defect
it's neo-pedo-marxists hosting Pedo-masochist parties on pedo-particular private pinko jets,
It's good old Jews it's good old commies good old fashioned faggy fairies, God's rejects,
It's curricula that teach our children to shit in boxes in our classrooms and bark and purr and hiss, giving new meaning to teacher's pet.
It's eagle murdering, tumor causing, terrifying hypnotizing legions of windmills, Woke with Wanting
Whirring and whirring whooshing and whooshing.
What do your literary scholars think of that Quickphonic Don now, not so crazy now huh?
To the fields friends,
let's show those freedom hating bastards how to make windmills do the tilting,
First we take the windfarms,
Then we take the sun.
And removing his Stetson, wiping his brow,
The father regards the horizon,
Beholds a gathered- no - gathering spreading mass of vibrating blackness,
squints in an effort to identify its nature, its movement, direction, pace.
And double takes for a moment : "huh... Are those windmills getting tipped over?"
Now regards his son, rests a hand on the boy's bony shoulder,
Turns himself and the child back to the busted out rear window, the rock lying on the top of the rear bench seat,.
The rock there, the window busted, the father and son there,
The heavy hand, gentle and warm,
The voice coming from the depths of a well, from the edges of space,
From the essence of a mortal wound:
"Son, I can fix that window. But I can't fix stupid."
Written by SayQuois
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