0652/1954 75/85 Hazy S/5 75%H
Greetings from the Hill.
A sultry spring day in paradise,
hazy, warm and humid...
the oldman was still sick and suffering
headaches, ringing ears, dizziness,
burning eyes and lack of concentration...
"Too fucking tired to blog or..
sick of the banksters and liaticians
who dumb and numb the brain,"
growls the madone,
classics from Havana, no TV,
cats fed and sleeping,
"Tomorrow and another day at court,
a new code inspector to dig deeper
into the historic house problems...
the engineer has leveled the floor,
plumbed the tilted walls
and squared the beams...
pretty damn good by himself,"
acknowledges the madone.
"And a new railing yesterday,"
muses the oldman becoming
faint at noon.
All this oppressive shit of finance,
minor millionaires pretending,
playing in bigtime digits
betting on betting on betting.
"Yeah, you assholes..
square derivatives that
magnify the 32/1 leverage
of HedgeHogging in the Caymans
or the world's largest sandtrap
Hazy silver skies and roofs
surrounded by lush spring leaves,
the forty foot Key Lime burgeoning
with yellow blossoms across the street,
a red trumpet of Royal Poinciana
dazzles through the west window...
"Greedy pissant thieves who strive
to drive the Bush SUV with SIV's
and exotic titles fueled by corn,
maybe the hungry starving masses
will push and pull for pennies...
Or maybe a ten cent dollar,"
wondering what reason
beside the greed of all
could cause Uncle Sam
"Don't want to hear about 'it',
that answer to the predicament,
a cause of recession, a factor
in the financial model of bankers,
the buzzwords of hustlers with
lists of million dollar suckers...
the 20/20 Club," spitting
at the chickens below,
who only wanted food,
a little rice perhaps
or maybe corn.
"The dumbass fuckwads can't see,
never view their bulging bodies naked,
or are the fatones lowerclass, underclass,
the million elite are trim and slim
and the middleclass all on diets,
living not as they are
but who they fantasize...
smaller clothes sizes,
larger room sizes,"
upward mobility towards
The Diety of Debt,
gloom and doom without a tomb.
"Ah, it happens every decade,
a few trillion gets wiped out,
gamblers out of their league,
amateurs with the pros,"
skoffs Mileken beyond 'it',
that mysterious 'it' again...
all serving, like 'fuck it',
which the sheeple of this
'Once Great Nation'
ought to consider
The oldman's head was aching
from the fraud and deception,
truth in advertising but no returns
without buyer protection...
"Insurance is the name of the game,
hedge your bets for the gamble,
protect AAA's with derivatives,
that 'shadowy OTC market' by Markit,
coowned by the 'Top Twenty'
who get saved by 'Bailout Bernie'
and Whoever Whatever
the Fool in the Debt House.
Save canned goods.
Live on fifty a week.
Don't drive to work.
Buy Miller fourpacks.
Hardly a breeze
in the florida keys
where building booms
and nothing sells.