You Mustn't Say That
Late morning slurs her silver words, starts to lose
her chrome-bright snow blanket to the flaring sun.
Every town, church-clean or halter top breast-juicy,
opens its mouth to suck marrow from the poor.
It is time for elections: half smile candidates,
I'm not concerned about the poor...
I like to fire people... and when I travel,
I strap the dog to the roof of the car to see America.
You would feel silly, at your slumber-glazed age,
stealing an apple-red desperado-drive Cadillac.
Turn up the volume as you pass the hospital.
Wave to the tequila-kisses cafe waitress.
Little darlin' hands you a pot of potato peels
to pitch into the pasture, The only Caddy you're
gonna stone ride is a black licorice hearse.
Money-gone America, we're pissin' next-time-water.