Old Poem of Mine

Bombs and Beats

‘Twas a battle untold in history books
‘Tween artists and the bureaucrats.
Those centuries of dirty looks
Would manifest what was repressed.
The fat men stood across the street
With pepper spray and badges.
They were not accustomed to defeat,
Even CEOs prepared for blows.
“You lazy useless scum,” they said,
Come on out of give it up!
Who buys your paintings, keeps you fed
While you diddle with your fiddle?”
The artists in their steel-toe boots,
With swivel blades and didgeridoos,
Had painted on their birthday suits,
They shattered glasses, shook their asses.
The businessmen were undeterred;
They closed down the museums.
The artists tagged the streets with slurs
And pissed on desks and all the rest.
“You boring greedy greasy nerds,
All you care about is green!
Yet you plow the trees and murder birds,
You rape the earth that gave you birth.”
The president brought in the tanks,
For businessmen to hide behind,
While artists set aflame the banks;
Some bureaucrats then fled like rats.
The poets stood with pens in hand,
But no match were they for bombs,
Which rained on their entire band,
Taking power in the final hour.
The musicians played their sorrow song;
They had no thirst for blood.
Already spilled, they limped along.
Their spirits spent, away they went.
They packed their bags and boarded planes,
They left the cooperate world to live
In other lands where love remains,
And there the stay this very day.