Political Poem: The Marx Industrial Complex (MIC)

2001 SPACE ODYSSEY Share the watering hole or own it: you choose
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The Marx Industrial Complex

by John Kendall Hawkins

and the graffitti postures on the wall

are beyond my ken

and require hermeneutics men

(not women, except for Dianne Keaton, natch,

who may offer little light, but brings her snatch)

for I am far too weak of mind

to understand the economic double bind --

that bookish spiral staircase,

that genome of the human race --

that's driven simple balding history:

It's damn or be damned, no mystery;

throw that first rock or be stoned,

bebop bone or be bop-boned.

We're at The End, quoth Francis F*ck-yo-mama,

in dimestore comic book Hegel. (Â ¡Ay, caramba!)

Becomes a bestseller, mucho egg-swellian,

then he recants, rewrites, how Hegelian.
.

We need store-bought ideas, out-of-the box

memes and tropes to like, the daily pox.

We don't need no stinkin' badges

no wisecrackin' dishliquid Madges

from the fake news mind-massaging media;

the truth's simple, not an encyclopedia.

We don't need men who bring their lumber

and lord over, as if the rest of us doth slumber,

ripe for malappropriations

and the lesser of multiple opiations.

We know the score: It's all contained

in the Golden Rule, the rock abstained

and not thrown

no bebop bone.

O find a way to get off the sizzle grid

before you "anger" some algorithmical AI's id.