Writing

Fascists sing out of tune

A song of the fascist insurgents
Who flow in like a stream
They ransacked the capital
Living that wild dream
Happy they are
Happy they be
What’s in the future?
Who can foresee?
In defense of lawn order
With jockey statuary to match
They got all tore up
In that dang briar patch!

Just like that bluebird of happiness
A purchase in the tree
Who sings that catchy song
Called “Woe is me! Woe is me!“

They sing like canaries
Trapped in a coal mine, it’s a living
And the stool pigeons back it
Because those bird brains there
Haven’t figured out it’s all a racket.

A feast of the unknown

Please enjoy this festive jingle, a little song set to the music of that other song about the feast of Stephen’s. And have a lovely new year.

— DavidRaffin.com —

John Wayne Gacy Was a clown
Who had a love of Chil-dren
What he charged For sir-vices
Was well within his Rea-son.
Considering his efforts great
He put forth every Sea-son
Morning, noon, and eS-pec’lly night
But Sundays off for grie-ving.
Hmm.
To keep your act Fresh These holi-days
Use citrus fresh de-greaser
In powder, li-quid or handy wipe
For any Gosh Darn rea-son.
Hmm.

Sleep tight. Clean thoughts.

What is. That is. What is.

Soren Kierkegaard was a great Dane. Once one knows this, philosophy can never be quite the same. It is true platonic philosophy never runs against the grain. However, wherever Heidegger lifted his leg he always left a nasty stain.
Friedrich Nietzsche cocked his head, as many mammals do, smiled and said, “That’s quite a refrain, I have written many good books too.” Jean Paul Sartre wandered out to ponder upon the city zoo. He was also interested, very, in what was what and whether or not it any of it was true.
“Who’s to say?” cried Ludwig Wittgenstein, “And-further who can know? The experience which each one gets when each does stub thine own toe?”
My experience with old Lao-Tze has more meaning than you could ever know. I sometimes cite his poetry whilst pissing in the snow.

The rise of biscuits

When I went to the grocery store
I didn’t come for biscuits.
In the aisle near the door,
there was biscuit on the floor.
And all over his mother screamed,
Removing her face mask
come what hell brings.
“Biscuit!” she shouted out loud
Sputtering her sputum
into that hot crowd.
“Biscuit!“ she did shout again
Because repetition to her
was no grievous sin.
“Mama!” Biscuit shouted in return
He ran through the store
Like a fever does burn.
I’m sorry I don’t know how
This story ends,
But I hope I survive
To come again.

Sticky buns