My Generation (Version 2005)


let the rockets, red


our nations children-


the dare underneath their desks,

school kid evacuation

"home of the free

land of the dead!"

Bed time stories for

dear Mr. Bush

who's predictability astounds me.

Doughy faced

beady eyed,

please send us to our deaths in a calm and orderly fashion!

It must have been a far cry from wonderful

to wield your power hungry



of lesser men

don't cry out against you

when they're all too stunned to speak.

I'll offer you no alibi here

after all, my greatest fear

is that one day you will go to far.

Let the soldiers rest

beside my candle bent-

I did stand on the street corner with my sign:

"Talk to Cindy!"

I say, talk to her

after all she's lost more then me

how can you not see;

just talk

but Mr. President is naked without his decree.

My romance

is chemical

it curls between my fingers like ivy;

his kiss was once the same way.

Princess Katrina with her wayward whistle

as though the bells for dismissal

were not enough.

S.O.S's on rooftops

it will take years

to mop

this one up.

F.E.M.A. faded with their invoice

after four days

their was no one left to rejoice

for the food and water that somehow got delayed.

They shake the hands of the weary

but stay away from the starving;

leery of the angry black man with his gun.

Come on Greenday, don't let me be an "American Idiot!"

"American Hypocrite!"

"American: Who Gives A Shit?"

The Phantom of the Opera only sings at noon;


I find myself never really in the mood;

I've listened to his serenade before,

his bland and selfish croon.

Pat Robertson

is a man of god,

Mr. Golden Toes

let alone your foes;


to kill a man is a sin

but to wish it,



you'll never win,

I'll just let God

(your kin!)

settle it out with you.

John Roberts is full of quotations

highlighted, dog eared pages

of the stages

that the justice system goes through

(but how can you be a judge and a good Christian to boot?)

My car crash

was the slash that woke me from nineteen years of dreams,

nineteen years of schemes,

beans of knowledge

and Mr. Gasoline

x-Fire fighter

x-Vietnam warrior

and yes even suicide survivor.

(Somebody wake me up when July ends!)

He and I are connected like no one else on this earth


and I


inside our joined cars;

the collision

of his already scarred face,

why don't you see if you can trace

the girl that I used to be

from the girl that I am now,

at least I lived long enough to see the last Star Wars movie.

And Natalee Holloway

she had her death around the eyes

its too bad

no one ever told her not to take rides

from strangers.

This war of ours is quite romantic

the beauty of it all;


who sing their little ditty's

(Steven Tyler style)

underneath the street lamps.

You fall asleep

to dream of them

and their burnt kiss:

Go ahead and wait for it bitch!

Britney Spears is pregnant

and after all she waited so long

as though twenty three

hung like a fog

between her cigarette smoke

and the liquorish cum of her boyfriend

on my TV screen,

she got married just so she could have a kid

in wed lock

not to knock

on the fact that they cut her open the same week that her perfume debuted.

They sent me back to school

in 2005

so I can be bent (once more) to someone else's persuasion.

I work my nine to five

in this crumbling dive,

I smile, and I jive

inside this violet neon vibe

but am I really still alive?