ONE NIGHT OF FUN... AND THEN ???
The clock stroke. Pandemonium broke. The annual joke. A world soak with celebration, excitation of short duration, then back to the same frustration for the duration of another weary year. Perhaps the last? Nobody knows.
Will the passing of another year be just a number, 365 days to wake and slumber, a bummer with another summer, the seasons and no reason for all the big to-do and ballyhoo, the noisy thing folks always do before they settle down into another Big Brother smother of what's left of our once free and flourishing democracy.
Nothing has changed but the rearranged, jiggered figures that creep a sleeping civilization ever closer to annihilation. Another year has come and gone, The same senseless war goes on. The UN would rather blather than gather its forces to order the world to hold its horses until a leader comes on the scene that will clean up this latrine.
It won't be Bush, that's for sure. His cure is pure manure. It won't be Tony, the clone of George, the British phony. So what's the story? Who will we find to mind the store? Who will lead us to an age of glory? Who will make things hunky-dory?
As long as there's oil in the sand and a demand for fuel throughout the land, there's only one thing the world will understand: kiss the Arab's greasy hand and other parts of his anatomy to keep the economy on a spending spree and slake the thirst of the cursed petroleum industry.
So is that what the cheering is all about? Every time the ball falls on Times Square more blood must flow to keep our economy on the grow. And every time we seal a deal, drip by drip, we grow nearer to the end of the trip on the good ship Armageddon.
Will the passing of another year be just a number, 365 days to wake and slumber, a bummer with another summer, the seasons and no reason for all the big to-do and ballyhoo, the noisy thing folks always do before they settle down into another Big Brother smother of what's left of our once free and flourishing democracy.
Nothing has changed but the rearranged, jiggered figures that creep a sleeping civilization ever closer to annihilation. Another year has come and gone, The same senseless war goes on. The UN would rather blather than gather its forces to order the world to hold its horses until a leader comes on the scene that will clean up this latrine.
It won't be Bush, that's for sure. His cure is pure manure. It won't be Tony, the clone of George, the British phony. So what's the story? Who will we find to mind the store? Who will lead us to an age of glory? Who will make things hunky-dory?
As long as there's oil in the sand and a demand for fuel throughout the land, there's only one thing the world will understand: kiss the Arab's greasy hand and other parts of his anatomy to keep the economy on a spending spree and slake the thirst of the cursed petroleum industry.
So is that what the cheering is all about? Every time the ball falls on Times Square more blood must flow to keep our economy on the grow. And every time we seal a deal, drip by drip, we grow nearer to the end of the trip on the good ship Armageddon.
posted by Ed Weiland at 11:06 PM
1 Comments:
ó,ó,...regardless of the bleak prospects of the future yet to come...
I wish you a very happy new year 1006!
May you cherish each moment of joy it holds for you,
my friend :o)
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