Everything in America is For Sale
Moral obligations to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God, truth has been exported to the eastern winds
The West has sold itself into perpetual debt, and the global reserve currency of Time has run its course
We, the so-called Americans, were asleep when we became the commodity on the computer screen
Mobile entrapments, cold, hard, and unused, as the lovers abused themselves into attention-seeking mores, looking for their next vacation for an incomplete wind
Potential habitual payment plan lays waste for traps of the mice made men
To beguile the bombs dropped on moms and five-year-olds with billion-dollar presents
Allow me to present no one holy, I know no not one when it comes between the father and the son of a country that spends raping its imported so-called escorts
For hours of work to perpetuate a system globally gobbling gone out of its mind
Reread the ancient texts and remember to free your lines from the wind
To distort, contort, abort, the landlords and rent seekers
On islands, my lands, my lens, they conquer our inner features
Eyes disguised as computers, muted, overthink
bodies broken down, kinks
To think
We, the people, live a dream that keeps migrating on stolen land with a fee
To mask, bag, and throw away the key
All in the name of the economy
They blame it and vacate it on their own sodomy
While we, the 99 percentile, sit in chairs of existential exile
Lay wait to what the Rothschilds call priorities
Golden domes, children without homes, daycare, medicare, don't give a care
No, not one flying fuck, when the Aflac quacks, there are no more bucks
No more dollars on a tree to print to infinity
Inflate the obscenities until they are normalized
The playbook they paid to cover up their lies
No vast conspiracy to force the living to survive
No one in America can afford to live when everything is for sale
I read it in the newspaper, and asked some of my girl friends to see if they knew
The wind blowing can not be felt through the screens, and the bullshit that they threw
So I looked down at the line of the head of the paper that stood on Wednesday's morning porch, so still
I felt what I saw was the truth of the Western wind
So the dream of the masses is to move and become expats
When
"Everything in America is For Sale"
(NYT, Wednesday Edition, $4 daily, excluding tariffs).