Anyway, I'd like to share two of the poems with you, because surprisingly enough I think they actually hold up fairly well. Without further ado, I present Poems from the Past.
Theme to the Fall of Man
Factory fires, funeral pyres,
Putrid stench of burning tires.
Smoke stacks, flapjacks,
Acid-leaking battery packs.
NRA, KKK, NBA, CIA.
ICBMs, WMDs, TGIF.
Computer chips, pink slips,
Fools go out and skinny dip.
Lines of code, a la mode,
It's falling out. It's falling out.
We're learning to live in doubt.
Human race, turn your face,
Hide away in your happy place.
Sing your song, nothing's wrong -
We can all just get along.
Digital music and books on CD;
Pray to the god of technology.
Everything is fine, The O.C.'s on at nine.
Who cares if the world is in a swift decline?
Don't go out alone, hold on to your cell phone;
You sold your soul for the coolest ring tone.
All that was green turns to brown.
Idols of man come crashing down.
Bottled water, lambs to the slaughter,
Got to get the money come hell or high water.
Jet lag, corporate slag,
Pledge allegiance to the flag.
Drowning in a sea of McDonald's and Wal-Marts,
The world's a stage, and we're all just bit parts.
Nuclear winter, summer of love,
Astronauts rockin' in the stars above.
Global warming, media storming,
Politicians all performing.
Wherefore hath the flaming balls of doom
Descended on your living room?
Apocalypse now, don't ask how,
Step on up and take your bow.
Nuclear war, hammer of Thor,
There will not be an encore.
Exit stage left.
Exit stage left.
Mind like a Rubik's Cube,
Heart like a vault,
Poised before the brink of the final assault.
Know they enemy as thy friend
And let him meet a merciful end.
Men fall like stalks of wheat
And vultures swoop to collect the meat.
The warrior's blade is his only companion.
Old vendettas run deep like a canyon.
Can you hear the bell sound?
For whom does it toll?
For men who've lost their souls.
Some are going home
And some are left in holes.
Under a bloody sun,
Bloody deeds are done.
The warrior waits anxiously
Like the bullet in his gun.
This lonely mother's child
Once was meek and mild;
Now his clothes are torn
And his eyes are wild.
Now his tears run like rivers
And he's filled with shrapnel slivers,
And though the day is hot
He's cold and he shivers.
The warrior's been brave
But he's too wounded to save.
Now the call of duty
Calls him to his grave.