Freefallin'

777
by GC SMITH

Seven-seven-seven
market freefall,
not the Devil’s number

Six-six-six
are the Devil’s digits
stoking hellfire

Seven-seven-seven
might be JACKPOT
at a Vegas slot

Six-six-six
Devil says to hell with
your portfolio

It’s in the numbers
says the seer
who cannot see

A World Unglued

Nero Was A Piker
By GC SMITH

Fiddle-faddle
political prattle
screw the world
let it burn

Point a finger
shout a slogan
beats the hell
out of doing right

Collapse is coming
worldwide
but never mind
ideology first

Come together
for the good
that’s too easy
so screw it

Let it burn
fuel the fire
life will go on
albeit diminished

Want a house
perhaps a job
paycheck is nice
don’t hold your breath

Get in line
we’ll ladle soup
hand out an apple
you won’t get more

The Bastards are asking us to rescue them

Bailout

Who gets to pay?
Why, you, of course,
and you and you and you
it won’t be the other guy
it’s gonna be you and you

How will we pay?
With purchases we make
each and every single day
with dollars from our Treasury
with ink that’s not yet dry

Why me you ask?
Because you are the
little bitty guy who has
the nickels and the dimes
that big guys need for bailout

Where will this end?
I doubt it ever will, I say
it’s life, it’s each-every day
it’s how we live, what we ask for
when we let thieves sell us fake value

What should I do?
Will my world end?
Should I jump out a window?
I sure don’t know the answer
but, I suggest we'll find another day

So muddle on you muddler
vote all the nasty bastards out
send the rotten crooks off to jail
start once again and try to get it right
write some rules and this time hire a cop

Save me!

Taxpayer—Taxpayer

Taxpayer, taxpayer
bail me out
give me a hand
I’ll take some bucks

Taxpayer, taxpayer
take over my mortgage
pay off my debt
set me free

Taxpayer, taxpayer
triple my pension
raise it again and again
up my purchasing power

Taxpayer, taxpayer
Do I care what price fuel
four-five bucks a gallon
just pay for my gas

Taxpayer, taxpayer
push it down the road
my kids have the money
or maybe my grandkids

Taxpayer, taxpayer
your nose to the grindstone
while thieves skim the cream
who the hell is the fool

Republican
Democrat
what does it matter
a crook is a crook

Summer's gone, winter's comin' on

Morning News Route
By GC SMITH

Five a.m. on a winter morning
I’m up; I’m dressed: I’m out
I have newspapers to deliver

Bright moonlight reflects
off new fallen snow
silvering frozen city streets

I trudge through the snow
with my canvas sack
banging on my hip

Bare handed,
gloves pocketed,
I fold newspapers

I toss one hundred and ten
TIMES LEADER papers
one by one to porches

By, seven, I’m finished
and scurry on home again
hungry for a hot breakfast

First, frost frozen fingers
must be thawed under
the cold water tap

Then, adolescent appetite appeased
with cocoa and hot, sugared oatmeal
I ‘m ready to trudge off to school

Winter’s were damn cold
back when I was a kid
delivering newspapers

Economic Fundamentals

Political Economics 101
By GC SMITH

It ain’t fun watchin' the financial world melt
As avarice fanned hell fires roar around us
As CEOs scramble to unfurl golden parachutes
As little guys shiver with thoughts of savings lost

But, wait, listen to these words of wisdom
Words that will surely reassure we dolts
“Whiners, that’s what they are,” says old Phil Graham
“Fundamentally sound,” says ancient John (H. Hoover) McCain

Gosh, it’s great to be assured by such wise old farts
Men whose deregulation fanned flames of unfettered greed
Men who can’t distinguish their asses from their elbows
Men who however could, and did, aid and abet financial fraud

Dark Matter

On The Bleakness Of Blindness
By GC SMITH

Honk, beep, screech, honk
it’s hard to cross the street
I need to get a seeing eye,
a sight dog might be neat

Ouch it’s hot, damn it’s sharp
stuff of each and every day
now a nasty pitfall or trap
fouling me in dang near every way

I can no longer read a book
with Netflix I can’t pass time;
it’s this dammed lonely blindness
that's driving me toward the wine

A jug of red, just skip meals,
will get me through this day
soon my liver will be shot
and I’ll simply fade away

So, to hell with that sight dog
that life is simply not for me
spending ones days behind a dog
is to be in prison, not set free

Braver beings than I, I’m sure
can live with constant black
but I need light, some color
that’s a simple truthful fact

Life spent in total darkness
is no kind of life for me
maybe a dose of cirrhosis
will come to set me free

Or, maybe in a sodden stupor
I’ll stumble into a busy street
on out with rushing city traffic
where a violent end I’ll meet

Da Mudbug

Tinkin’ ‘Bout High Office
By GC SMITH

Da Mudbug sittin’ here tinkin’ ‘bout big time politics. Maybee runnin’ fo’ President or at leas’ fo’ da Vice-President. Seems dat havin’ ‘bout no experience has become da major qualification fo’ high office an’ da Mudbug sure qualify on dat account. Except fo’ a single term on da Pigeonairre town council he ain’ had no time in politics. Mudbug’s kinda like dat ‘bama guy or dat Palen woman; he got juss ‘bout no qualification. O’ course dem two amateurs got demselves dem ol’ timers Biden an’ McCain to shore ‘em up or tear ‘em down as da case may be.

Tinkin’ it ova, da Mudbug betta stay ‘way from seekin’ high office. Could-might take away from relaxin’ wit a col’ one or from da weekend fais down to Dupree’s place.

Betta just stayin’ here in da bayou country. Dat’s what I figger, me.