I heard a story about my future
on the boob tube today –
how it’s being bought and sold
by some nameless, faceless banker
who likes to strut like a peacock
up and down the Boardwalk
as if the world is spinning inside the palm of his hand.
The zombie staring at me through the screen
went on to read
from the teleprompter
about how my life is being traded
like a dirty derivative
on the floor of the stock exchange
by a mob of screaming swine
who drink liquid gold for breakfast
and light their cigarettes
with worthless fiat Federal Reserve notes.
The breaking news struck me as odd
because my soul still felt intact,
and as I looked through the open window
out upon the dawning day
the sun was rising and shining bright,
which led me to believe
that the bankers haven’t
brought about Armageddon quite yet,
and so my song and dance routine
can still help to flush their presence
straight into the sea
where all such swine belong.
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