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Copyright: Fred Robel, and Fritz365 2010-2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog's author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Fred Robel and Fritz365 with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Sunday, January 25, 2015

'Murica Shot the Sheriff

T'was the Mozart of spies
With gadgets galore inside his shoe
And glowing green laser eyes
Shooting through Chuck E Cheeses across America
Dancing in jerky animatronic nightmare 2am last call
Kicking down the crumbling Berlin Wall
And declaring rampant Perestroika

Sent to outer space to make some peace
Instead powering up the solar sail array
And tacking across the solar system and off away
Picking up speed
No sir not slowing down
Until hitting Ursa Minor Town
Blistering down through their atmosphere
Anachronistic six-guns a blazing
Until their Sheriff (as it were) surrendered

He is the double O-Seven of 'Murica
Bleeding red white and blue
If you can cut him at all
Skin made of diamond blistered Sawz-Alls
With custom gold grill upon upper teeth
Looking cool lounging around the backyard copper tube still
Sipping Tennessee whiskey from a stainless cup
Getting just tipsy enough
To climb a way up high that hill
To the jacked up
Harvester tired Ford Model Bigfoot
A wet dream of Henry's fifty years ago
Giving him a heart attack at last
Leaving Edsel in charge
Which meant you can now get cars in other colors
Where they used to just be all in black
Dignified in their stride
Pulled down the assembly line by wooden teethed George Washington clones
Rejects from Edison's lab down the road
Where all the good experiments go on
With little or no oversight
From government's nanny blight
It gets results
It lines our pockets
Or at least one percent of us

'Murica, 'Murica
Land of the Dave
Home of the see
When that cloudy cleared
That flag was still chock full of snakes
Screaming "Don't Tread on Thee!"
Fangs out and screaming
Skinned to the bone and dreaming
Of a brighter 'Murica for our sons and daughters

Because if it's bright enough to blind them
They'll fail to notice that they aren't any longer free

Call in the Hipster agents
Who've seen it all before
With guns on their backs in Open Carry Orgasm
Hard up against Obamacare and the arsenal of Obamaphones
Free for the taking
Piles of ten year old Motorola Vodaphones
Reception fit for a turd
With the slowest tunes you've ever heard
A slow motion ditty
To remind us that we are shitty
When the daily affirmations get to be too much
And our shit smells like roses again
In the piles next to our beds in the Mental Ward Wing
Brought to us on Valentine's Day
The best Hallmark sponsored holiday in all of pre-spring

Fat signal lit
'Murica responds
Wearing cape and mumu
Riding a red Amigo down the center line at the speed of sound
'Murica dripping like KFC grease from the lips
Eyes open and vacant
Perhaps belonging to a stroke victim
Half a face sagging
Pooping in a bagging
Gay agenda from the rear bumper dragging
Cops beating the shit out of us all for bragging
About how fucking great
This 'Murica kind of place really is

(Don't tase me bro!)