National grassland appears privately
Owned, some secret buckaroo tax dodge.
Down in Dallas men in suits sport high-heel
Boots decorated with skulls and guns.
Women sashay in fugues of perfumeries,
Pushing viscous personal clouds, five-inch
Heels tapping marble floors like ballpeens.
Most of the country tightening their belts,
Many with no belts, only frayed hemp,
While Big D’s polishing its belt buckle
Made of gold with crude oil, faking interest
In poor folk down to the soup kitchen,
Sending their kids from neufy schools as public
Service, think of visiting human zoos.
Out to Grapevine this gal tells me, “Railroads
Vintage, but mah doc done point twoed me.”
Weak must die to let the strong keep growing.
The world isn’t fair, some getting generous
Headstarts and taught to think they were born fleet.