“DON’T LET MY PEOPLE (or John Bolton) GO” a poem written on the 10th of this month, but posted: September 15, 2019 (Sunday)

“DON’T LET MY PEOPLE (or John Bolton) GO” a poem written on the 10th of this month, but posted: September 15, 2019 (Sunday)

Sung to the song: “Let My People Go” or “Go Down, Moses”

When Bolton [WAS] The Sec. of State,

(He said) “Let our people go.”

No, no not Mo-ses, IT WAS JOHN:

“Let our people go.”


Will heBOLT, ANDgo ON the run?


For this Favorite Son?

I think that Donald might retract, I made a bet on IT;

A bogus tweet? ’cause John is NOT

Another zealous twit.

Stay withUS, John – ny; come on, Trump, for WE KNOW:



fin ♥

Well, now that John is OUT, my friends, several days ago,

I still do think – THAT TRUMP COULD CHANGE,

Where his mind MIGHT GO.

‘Cause Trump likes to WAFFLE; he is “A WAFFLEr;”

And Bolton’s good friends with HIM too,

[AND]otherGUYSwillBE aw! full ER.

(P. S.: That is NOT Marilyn Manson singing; that is Trump DOING A COVER. Isn’t he good? Listen carefully to The Lyrics: THEY DEFINE HIS POLITICS and the politics of every other politician, pretty much, in the past 45 years or so. Pretty neat, Hey? Actually, did you know that Donald Trump co-wrote this song, along with Brian Warner, who later became MARILYN MANSON, while they were still living in Canton, Ohio, when The President still had his birth name of: Arnold Rump, a member of “The Zippers,” a marauding bunch of misfit hooligans from “the wrong side of the tracks!” A lot of this information was obscured after “Donald” entered The New York Military Institute, under an assumed name!)


Humility ~

“HUMILITY” a poem Sept 15, 2019 (Sunday)

You’re going outside; go ahead, turn the knob,

You might hear “Good bye,” but you need not sob,

Although you may not return to this familiar room,

It’s humility to acknowledge this fact: “The next moment may be your doom.”

So, with gratitude and humility, GO IN PEACE,

And WALK HUMBLY for life can cease,

OR CAN CONTINUE with a wave of The Hand,

Of some unseen force, which rules The Land.

You are but clay, molded? well;

You can make your life as smooth, I tell,

YOU or as desperate as you, you might choose,

You can drown your sorrows in tears and booze,

But (KNOW) too much fluid poured into YOU,

Will dissolve your sinews of your dusty crew,

For your body’s JUST ATOMS , just dust and water,

Molded SOME HOW as a son or a daughter.

So, walk very humbly, each and every day,

And occasionally KNEEL on your clay knees AND PRAY.

For each day’s a gift so purse your lips,

As your little pottery body ERODES & chips.

fin ♥

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“KIDNAPPED IN MEXICO” a poem September 15, 2019 [SUN? DAY]

“KIDNAPPED IN MEXICO” a poem September 15, 2019 [SUN? DAY]

Imagine you’re in (say) MEXICO; you’re sitting in a house;

You don’t know where you really are; youAre (kinda) like a mouse?

Children outside are playing; you do not speak their tongue;

YOU DO NOT KNOW WHY YOU ARE THERE, or why you are among,

THESE STRANGERS, but you’re inAcompound, it SEEMS that you are free,

ButYouHave no means of transport You haveNO carAkey.

There are no men just women and children here with you;

You want to returnHOME but you don’t know what to do.

You have no food, but you’re not hungry. ThisISyour SCE NAR io,

AndHereYouARE isThis(some)FREEDOM? YouARE in MEX i CO.


There is no escaping You have no one to call.

You could SCREAM or RUN, but what good would that do?

THIS, good friends, IT IS LIFE HERE on thisEarth whichIS soBlue.

DO YOU THINK thisISfreedom? Do you think this is OK?

AND THIS FRIENDS is our life HERE, every single day.

You are not being torTured (it seems) (maybe) YOU’RE ONLY BEING HELD;

IsIT Heaven or H – L L? in Mexico, pray telled?

The children and the women are OB LIVIOUS TO THEIR PLIGHT;

They’re simply your companions; they play all day ANDatNIGHT,

They go TO BED, withSugarplums dancing in their head,

In time, you learn the language; you become (as they say) a PA-TRON; You amass some wealth & fortune, spending most of your time on the ‘phone. And time goes by, OR NO TIME PASSESinAflash] You STILL don’t know who youareorwhereyouare, but WHO CARES, you have someCASH, AND SOMEsay: “You are someone,” andTHUS, thisISlife as we know YouMIGHT as well be lost in the mountains, in a heavy SNOW. AND somePEOPLEsay: “Oh, VOYAGER, THATthere are manyLivesToCome, IN India or France, and you just sit on your bum, LOOKING at The Scenery, basking in the sun, Dying in a war, perhaps until this nextLife’s done. NEVER really dying or living or being free,] ‘Cause, whoKNOWSwhat is freedom, and there is you and me.

[And, after a few decades, they go to Heaven, it’s said.]

MORAL: BE happy in your work, it is endless and sublime,

And, about the best you can do is:

say, just say, say: “I’m, (pause)

STABLE AND CONTENT, AND Ihave A POINT OF VIEW, that keeps me from screamingBLOODY MURDER.” Yup! That’s about the best you can do.

♥ Screw around a little bit and start a fa-mi-ly, AND write some poems and sing some songs, in 4-part har-mo-ny. AND AT THE SETTING SUN, EACH DAY, CHECK YOUR CELL PHONE TO[O], DETERMINE IF ANYONE CALLED “Your Lord” (pause)


fin ♥

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Life and death~

Accustom yourself to the belief that death is of no concern to us, since all good and evil lie in sensation and sensation ends with death. Therefore the true belief that death is nothing to us makes a mortal life happy, not by adding to it an infinite time, but by taking away the desire for immortality. For there is no reason why the man who is thoroughly assured that there is nothing to fear in death should find anything to fear in life. So, too, he is foolish who says that he fears death, not because it will be painful when it comes, but because the anticipation of it is painful; for that which is no burden when it is present gives pain to no purpose when it is anticipated. Death, the most dreaded of evils, is therefore of no concern to us; for while we exist death is not present, and when death is present we no longer exist. It is therefore nothing either to the living or to the dead since it is not present to the living, and the dead no longer are – Epicurus