The blonde general
w/ her own reality show
and randy coterie
puts me on the kill list
as the banking clan feed
off the hireling’s platter.
She lays waste the periphery.
Advancing forward, well heeled, feral cats,
who won’t dance to Tchaikovsky,
tie me to the brunette’s bed.
They want something out of me
I just don’t have. Gospel. Faith that somehow
we’ll get past this dreamless time,
this querulous point of vast debate