Ella- "Yeah, they're moving me to the North Terminal. We'll have real food there like sushi, lasagna, and other stuff. I don't understand why I have to get a new badge with a Customs emblem."
Me- "Perhaps, its because you are serving foreign food?"
*Laughter*
Lynette- "Only Bri would think of that."
*Everyone nods their head in agreement and giggles*
Arline- "YEAH!"
Friday, August 6, 2010
Broken Down Palace
Broken Down Palace
From the pulpit of Mammon, they beg the world,
“Please, take back your tired,
your poor, and your huddled masses.
Breathing in our land is no longer free.
That will be a dollar ninety-nine per minute,
And counting…”
Brilliant minds no longer think alike,
the synaptic connections
cannot create ideas,
a side affect of the limitations of political ideals.
Track records morph
into downward spirals,
of agendas, returned favors,
and lobbyism.
Direction is fuddled,
as the navigation system coolly replies,
in a collected British tone,
“Recalculating.”
Ticker tap replaces a flame,
spelling out.
“NO VACANCY!”
“PUT UP THE WALLS,
AND BURN THE BRIDGES!”
Sarah Get Your Gun!
All boarders,
However, no limitations.
“Freedom,” the people cry,
as they crawl through
mud and gunfire.
Mow my lawn,
and I will give you a
glimpse of freedom.
The cogs in the machine
along the rust belt have oxidized
Please go back
from whence you’ve came,
Our boys from Detroit
can take your place.
“Freedom,” the people cry,
as their mail boxes and voicemail are over taxed
“You are free,”
claim the creditors,
“Free from the obligations
of your home, your car,
and your phone.”
“I had a bicycle once,”
the little girl moans
A grimy fish smelling
hand tugs are your coat
Her mother pulls her away
because she knows
no one believes, no one cares
if you were once
royalty of a suburbanite utopia
Washed up, washed out, washed away
Into the abyss of
swill, anonymity, nothingness.
Your securities have been exchanged
for the greater good.
Let us capitalize on this misfortune,
shall we?
A soldier yells about the evils of Ellis,
What we have become,
his wasted time.
“Don’t let the door hit you in the ass,
I’ll take a side of nachos with that.
If you blow the Middle East to hell,
It’ll still be a desert.”
With a lingering threat, he yells,
“When I’m done with Iraq,
I’m coming for Dearborn.”
You son of a, son of a son of a…
Man, right off the boat,
Scrapping for the American Dream,
A bite of the Apple
Did you submit to God?
in the face of combat?
Who and what are you fighting for?
When and why, are you
putting your life on the line?
Whom are you trying to
Instill a new hope for?
Excuse me, sir please,
a moment of your time.
“A dollar ninety-nine and counting…” he says.
In God We ALL Trust,
May I have my change,
please?
From the pulpit of Mammon, they beg the world,
“Please, take back your tired,
your poor, and your huddled masses.
Breathing in our land is no longer free.
That will be a dollar ninety-nine per minute,
And counting…”
Brilliant minds no longer think alike,
the synaptic connections
cannot create ideas,
a side affect of the limitations of political ideals.
Track records morph
into downward spirals,
of agendas, returned favors,
and lobbyism.
Direction is fuddled,
as the navigation system coolly replies,
in a collected British tone,
“Recalculating.”
Ticker tap replaces a flame,
spelling out.
“NO VACANCY!”
“PUT UP THE WALLS,
AND BURN THE BRIDGES!”
Sarah Get Your Gun!
All boarders,
However, no limitations.
“Freedom,” the people cry,
as they crawl through
mud and gunfire.
Mow my lawn,
and I will give you a
glimpse of freedom.
The cogs in the machine
along the rust belt have oxidized
Please go back
from whence you’ve came,
Our boys from Detroit
can take your place.
“Freedom,” the people cry,
as their mail boxes and voicemail are over taxed
“You are free,”
claim the creditors,
“Free from the obligations
of your home, your car,
and your phone.”
“I had a bicycle once,”
the little girl moans
A grimy fish smelling
hand tugs are your coat
Her mother pulls her away
because she knows
no one believes, no one cares
if you were once
royalty of a suburbanite utopia
Washed up, washed out, washed away
Into the abyss of
swill, anonymity, nothingness.
Your securities have been exchanged
for the greater good.
Let us capitalize on this misfortune,
shall we?
A soldier yells about the evils of Ellis,
What we have become,
his wasted time.
“Don’t let the door hit you in the ass,
I’ll take a side of nachos with that.
If you blow the Middle East to hell,
It’ll still be a desert.”
With a lingering threat, he yells,
“When I’m done with Iraq,
I’m coming for Dearborn.”
You son of a, son of a son of a…
Man, right off the boat,
Scrapping for the American Dream,
A bite of the Apple
Did you submit to God?
in the face of combat?
Who and what are you fighting for?
When and why, are you
putting your life on the line?
Whom are you trying to
Instill a new hope for?
Excuse me, sir please,
a moment of your time.
“A dollar ninety-nine and counting…” he says.
In God We ALL Trust,
May I have my change,
please?
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