By Mango Thunderslice
* * *
I Am No Patriot! Nay, I Shun the Nation,
And will Participate in Nobody’s Cuntery.
How Far We Have Fallen, From Those
Brazen Words of Old, Some Satanic Ink and
Paper Claim to Be as Good as Gold.
And Yet, Yea! How Far We’ve Risen,
From These Barbaries of Yore, For Now
The Ink & Paper Supersede the Blood & Gore.
And Little Blinking Lights, Ones & Zeroes in a Code,
Move with Such Ferocity as the Swords of Old.
Power is a Pattern, A Picture of Our Thought, and
A Compelling Imagination is All Anyone Has Got.
From the Vicious Doves of Washington,
To Fake Crowns in Ancient Lands,
To the Paper Sea Where All Roads Run,
Only A Story Stands.
The Story of Our People,
And From Whom We Do Ascend,
A Story Quite Restricting,
A Story to Transcend.
For While It All Seems Random, Willful Truth Unfolds,
Only Seen By Seekers Whose Truth the Iris Holds.
The Truth of Secret Fire, A Pyramid Inside, Whose
Capstone Perceives Everything That Happens
On the Ride. He Who Hears the Voice Within,
And Learns to Listen Still, Shall Have the Gift
That All Men Crave, the Sacred Gift of Will.
He Shall Have No Need of Money, But Easy
Will It Swing, For He Generates the Honey,
Currency of Kings. A Honey of the Mind,
And of the Heart and Soul, Transmuted Through
the Body, Along an Astral Pole, A Silver-bluish
String, that Runs Through Everything:
That Man Shall Be His King Again,
Who Learns To Love To Sing.