Saturday, May 24, 2008


A poem in adoring prose , or maybe in a rhyme all just for FOX , all from the brine. Such eloquence , such rabid edge , not everyone is born to fetch , the kneading and teething , the o'reilly factor , a bit of a lynching a tad of a crack pot . You must allow , your soul to indulge in their sold crotch to sow. They 've been brutalized by their father's scorn and now is their candor that we get the core. If your eyes were erased by soulless meats  then you must embrace the death of a heart the silence of a thousand screams , a lovely morning will turn again when you turn a knob and the calm begins , the quiet of truth never to be known by such a cold crew in a big toe corn. Pray for our sweet witches and our fix-it-all warlocks , their future goes grimmer with Fox at the parlor. Your cousin might burn , your dog might squeal , but by Thor and Odin , and electra , Poseidon and all the Harlem Globber trotters and your God and virgin and all these cherubs in hemp loin cloths , and by Tutatis and Axterix with his loyal Obelix, and by George and his dog and by all of those that mattered and plan to be watered in a spur of growth without weed killer involved, you must very well bet your ass Fox News will deliver the weed killer straight to your brain . Breath it in if you like or puke in a pew before the all might ,or keep on the channel and kill down the voice , while your four year old voices over good 'ol sponge Bob.

1 comment:

Cadi said...

Spasmic convulsions of joy: No TV in this house. Not letting Fox kill my brain cells. Off to have some booze.