Recycled Relics

Believe me they will find Excalibur
Or even the Honjo Masamune
But when they find it they will say
“You get don’t metal like this these days”
And they’ll melt it down for scraps.

They’ll one day find Christ’s crucifix
And cut pieces from the cross
For the wood is holy and not much is lost.
And they will recycle whatever they can
But the rest they’ll toss.

They will cut down the trees at Gethsemane
And at every other sacred grove
For the trees all filled with the people's love
Will make more books and Starbucks trays
Than the Amazon.

And at the end, when the treasures are all gone
All the recycled paper all up in flames
They will burn the countries and they will burn the land
They will burn the states, the constructs of man
They will burn the buildings and they will burn the cities;
They will burn the cities down to plant more trees.

Fucking ENGLISH Major, Man

Who IS this talentless four-eyed fuck
Whose words flitter listlessly upon a page
And who without his Pulitzer prize sized crutch
Would never deserve to take a stage?

Who IS this burned-out druggie cunt
This gonzo-douchebag piece of shit
Who writes between hard-hitting blunts
As if sobriety is holding back your wits?

And who IS this raving lunatic
If not just a wino with a pen
Who thinks that keeping just one shtick
Will win him a fucking prize again?

Who ARE these arrogant pissant sods
Who think they’re witty when they’re just verbose
And worship none but themselves as gods
And suck equally in verse and prose?

They’re nothing special, just worn out hacks
Running on empty and weed and crack
Who somehow make the words seem more
Than overplayed, overused, overestimated WHORES.