Mental Salvation

My blood brews as I watch
workers rot, drivers idle, celebrities parade
(those sheep!)
after the brawl of puny "brains"
started by the ruling deuce of morons.
I want to launch a war against the stupid.


The lambs bleat a mish-mash of songs
which laud a leader who stripped them of their wool.
"Hail Bush! Hail Bush!" they croon and cry.
They languish in the valley below, left to starve.
I grab a bottle of glue and tip-toe in the night.
I must fix their broken minds; I must be the mole.


"Dude!" they scream, blood curdling at my sight.
I smack their little heads like they're broken dolls.
Tonight these lambs will know the truth.
I shall not give them new wool,
but shall give them new thoughts.
I begin to weave new ideas with wit and glue.


I shred their clone outfits and piece together
new cloaks of philosopher's fabric.
With my glue, I hope to forge a truce.
Will they loan me their ears so I can hear their bleats
so new when I'm done?
Will they sing to scare the leaders?

I work as dawn's glow caresses my back,
painting me a crook under Bush and Cheney's glares.
I snuck in on horseback (now the binding glue)
to heal the ripped wounds in the lambs.
Now I have turned their pawns against them.
I hear them soil themselves as the woolen shrews awaken.