The Collected Poetry

Modern Man on a Balcony

The people's God of yesterday,

is the baal of the elite.

And sacred self-named prophets,

Make their bread a little sweet.

And all the social butterfly's

Do shrivel to social moths.

As they trade in their ascetics,

Whose etiquette was off.

And so it was with Jesus,

And so with Roosevelt,

And so it was with kith and kin,

When nationally felt.

When the glorious Noble Savage,

Who spurns your paper dime,

Grins and gloats and thanks himself,

For being ahead of time.

The arms that you collapse in,

May be weakened in surprise,

“My God I do hate money!”

The moneylender cries.

“Much pretense must be had!”

O! Prophet pious knows!

He'll save the day and make us,

One of his very own.

And may the lord almighty,

Be praised both night and day.

For I know something nobody does,

And that's the messiah's way.

Once I worshiped woman,

I knelt at her feet alone.

But she was cold and her altar,

Though flesh, was made of stone.

Then I worshiped pleasure,

That ended all too soon.

I read up on my poets,

They made me change my tune.

I thought I worshiped family,

My name would be my lord.

But then I got a paycheck,

A signed holy word.

But now I am much smarter,

I know what to venerate.

Money is torture.

I think I'll worship hate.

So everyone can see my pain,

On dais low and foul,

I'm harder and I'm bitter,

Morality on the prowl.