My Best That's Not Too Hot

"Green": that's the title, regardless of what Wattpad says!

Note: When I tried to save and publish this piece, titled as "Green," I received the message that the title was too short, and it wouldn't save or publish! What the hell?? THAT'S THE TITLE!! "GREEN!" But I had to change it to the above just to get it published! ARRRGHH!!

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Green

Pinstripe brains and wingtip egos:

button-down businss bozos

don their daily garb

to war in white-walled trenches.

It's a forty hour battle

in a never ending war

with pauses while the players change their sides.

 Hey, I tried it, man!

I was corpor-ate up with the blues

of shiny shoes and silky nooses,

fat gooses, power douches,

and it's all jive!

Who's alive in there? I want to know

whose show this is!

this biz of fizz and pomp and scam

 where power pimps proudly practice

all the principles of Peter --

all except the one who counts, that is.

'cause He's too cold, too bold, too moldy old,

fashioned from fairytale fragments

too hard to piece together,

too complex for our time,

too fucking moral for our modern man.

Hey! sandals just don't go with three piece suits,

ya know?

Shit, no:

you need some hip boots to be a modern man.

And ya gotta get around.

Here come the wingtip warriors:

brief cases of vast greed,

sububbanites,

subhuman, subalive submariners diving to new depths

to plum the bottom line.

They're media messiahs, man --

mass market messengers --

and the message is the product

and the product is a product

of imagined worth which is a product

of imagined wealth which is a product

of imagined need which is a product

of the message.

And the message says:

Gimme that Green, man!

Grant me one, or

Washingtons

of molding, folding

trucks of bucks.

Your luck's about to change, just

Gimme thin, flat coffins

filled with grinning presidents;

come spend your only dead man

on my bed, man,

purse my lips,

my hips will follow

where greed leads;

I'll bleed, I'll fart,

I'll start to dance,

but fill my pants with Green.

Aw, son of Jack,

I miss your back myself,

I miss your smiling face,

the taste tucked in my pocket.

I'm left with Lincoln pennance for my crimes,

the times I spent myself for Green --

the blue times, the black and white cross times,

the red times,

the New York Times,

and it's all a purple haze now,

all a maze of no-faze days now,

all rather lumped together, clumped together,

jump-start lays for Green now.

I won't go back,

I can't go back,

No one or thing can take me back!

I'll fight, I'll claw, I'll scream,

I'll cuss, I'll gouge your fucking eyes out!

But Jesus, man, let's be real:

The landlord wants his money

and I gotta have that Green.

Gimme some.