|Dancing Shrapnel Hoedown
Barking dogs sing the blues when
the new year puts on its
boots. I have a new CD of these
barking dogs, they were interviewed
in an in-depth look at dogs and the
kinds of songs they go to, in time of need;
I play it and I want my government to come
and turn me over and rub my belly, yes sir,
the barking dogs of love are snapping at my
heels. Leave No Child Behind said the
pedophile who truly claimed he believed in
the right God, the one that was not a terrorist,
supposedly, and the new year
rolled across the dirt in the parking lot
franchise the future held a twenty five per cent
interest in; the new year said give me a drink
of something magical. You truly want to
empathize, you reach out to grab anything magical,
drink or something else, and that shelf is
temporarily out of stock. Dancing Shrapnel Hoedown
nominated for a Grammy. Public schools surrounded
by maniacs full of righteous saliva, hacking,
inferring, bleeding;and myself, a product of that
public soiree, seeing more and more stupid adults
in large formats doing stupid things in larger
format. Jesus walks into the emergency ward of a major urban hospital and has no insurance
winds up bleeding to death.He'd been shot in Bagdad,
for airing a grievance, or he could have been a walking
corpse from other adventures, Panama, perhaps.
Barking dogs come with Condoleeza Rice power.In case of fleas.
Fleas used to have a case, but they ran out of
money. I roll across the dirt of my own private
parking lot, while Richard Gebhardt says he will put
bunk beds in the Lincoln bedroom if he becomes president.
Well, maybe so. I want the lower one.Dancing Shrapnel
Hoedown says Thanks for Being There.From the beginning.
With the sun took a turn for the worse.When all the
important talking folks had trouble finding the words.
When the new bag of runes arrived at the door.Go on,
reach into the bag,feel the rune that has your name
on it.The new year is making noise in the alley.The
new year is holding its own.Still reeling and staggering
from the old year, but what's that, in the long run?
I reach into my rune bag.I feel my rune.It sings to
my hand.It sings, damnit, and the song goes something
like this...Barking dogs sing the blues when...