As usual, I’m not entirely sure where this came from.
So. Ripped from the back pages of a magazine
for little diced-up boys, were you? Good, I guess.
Make you feel seasoned, like a pro, flexible
and handy with the ladies, don’t it, Boy-O?
Just like an old flag in need of stitching up
before Parade Day when it’s okay for you to be seen,
marching down the street like a right King
and half-regal, gold dust in your hair and flashes
popping all around your grand ass, Just a moment!
Just a quick photo and a comment, Young Master!
You have no idea what lengths the great Mothers
and Fathers of this here Nation went through
to get you where you gingerly think you rightly
belong, and I know you don’t, smiling like
your teeth are made from ivory and silver and gold
and all the shit them conquistadors spilled blood for.
Go on and inflate yourself some more with folks’ breath,
it ain’t like they’ll be needing it much longer anyhow,
what with the Grave checking in about every hour or so,
saying in that cold-dirt voice, You know, it’s almost time to go.