Wake the Dead
by MrDaMan
Virgil R. Hall II (Randy)

The emotional wheels are spinning,
look at the balance in the weeble wobble.
The gyroscopic confidence in peer pressure.
The comforting display of hate disguised
as brotherly love gilded in good intentions.

The glom glom machine, an agitated washer
of concepts, the strokie feelie manipulator
pushing, pulling and convincing grubby bubbles.
Rinsing soulful taint in ideological holy water.
A baptism, born anew, hope in a glam glam of bam bam.

Speak no evil, the truth is a dirty secret, a hate crime
forged phallic perversion spewing confusion in the face
of hungry doe eyed children with raised empty arms
yearning for a multifaceted milk chest mommy
squeezing… yanking the noose around daddy’s scrotum.

That’s right… be a good boy daddy and grovel before
the altar of equality, self-esteem is for babies, for show.
Real men sacrifice reality and dig the S&M of matronly
enslavement to the cause of diabolical wishful thinking.
Might as well wear a dress and metrolize the panty bulge.

Have no fear of political correctness, embrace the infatuation
of condoms on the muzzle of an M-16’s prodding insistence.
It’s just brotherly love after all, and with a little humility
you could be saved from the horrible mistakes
of an ego’s admission of ambition.

It’s a win, win situation… there are no losers
in common misery. Take a chill pill… or two!
Drown your aggravation in beers of discontent
and hold your quiet riot to a scale of 1 out of 10.
You wouldn’t want to wake the dead.