0642/1740 68/76Blue Skies N5/10 80%H
DOGS 10230 7699 1116 1716.
Greetings from the Hill.
A comfortable day in paradise,
a cool breeze from the north
for the milliondollar machines,
big spenders from the elite world.
The town grasping at events
to add to a diminishing cash flow
while retailers disappear in the night
unwilling to pay exorbitant rents.
"The signs are on the street
and more and more unlighted,"
snorts the madone.
"Empty seats at the World Series,"
shrugs John, visiting for the day,
a ticketholder himself...
"The bastards are cleaning us out
and nobody cares, you gotta think,
the mafia had morals, these pricks
are bloodsucking leeches,"
sipping a beer on the balcony
then heading into the coastal storm
returning to HedgeHog City.
More and more each day the fool
reveals himself beyond control,
becoming an embarassment,
a babbling pretentious imposter
as leader of the World...
Commander in Chief of a military
in another losing adventure
that profits only the privateers
and the drug cartels.
"Public memory is deleted nightly."
Too big to understand, too much to know,
those who toil for the soilings of others
can only dream and never chance to scheme
in the financial engineering of fraud.
"This fucking contagian is a disease
that was created in the minds
of mathmatical manipulators
for fast talking marketeers
of the swine pits of Lehman
and the cages of Bear...
'make a deal, how much can I steal',
the mantra for vultures and hogs
offering twenty percent gains
with bribes on the side ",
fumes the madone pissed
with liars and cheats,
embezzlers of the soul,
thieves of Trust.
"Yeah fucking yeah...
in Fraud we Trust,"
grumbles the oldman,
weak, sick and emfeebled,
body and mind diseased,
without insurance to cover
the catastrophic costs
of sustaining life...
allowing nature to determine
one's time on the planet.
A cool breeze on the balcony,
classics from Havana and CNBC,
cats on the chairs, doves on the railings,
roosters never silent,
a cold pint at noon...
Warren, the wood turner
downstairs on the lathe,
Tony protecting his garden,
the flautist silent.
"So what about this bigeared jewess
who engineers the law
for the Goldie Sox Gang,
this bitch must control Masters
and her derivative scam
with all the other crooked twats...
dried up cunts taking over
the Viagra dicks,
laughs the oldman
over being nice to anyone.
The Bribees in Congress sucked ass again
under the leadership of Bunghole Barney,
two stupid bills empowering Fraud Street
to fleece the naked sheep again,
"These fucking derivatives that no one
understands or wants to for fear of stupidity,
after all what does 'it' mean...
insurance on shorting an investment
to hedge against loss and gain
in the offshore havens
of the British Mavens,
'The City of London',"
cunts from Caimbridge,
pimps from JPMorgan,
traitors like Dimon.
"Go get them, Janet."
The bitch in the White House
pedals a healthcare plan
for cellphone drugdealers
and Acorn nutcases,
pathetic and preposterous,
the schill on the Hill.
One down and more to go,
Corzine and his largess,
New Jersey a mess.
Blue skies and beautiful,
a breeze in the keys.
Beyond the reef.
Above the Horn.