Friday, March 23, 2007
Gone Fishin' Day 3
Friday! Another work week behind us, am I right people?

And if it's Friday, you know what time it is. It's time for Pops' Poetry Slamm. Holla.

Everyone's watching, to see what I'm goin' do
Everyone's looking, but they don't give a fuck about you
Everyone's wondering how they can get their hands in your pocket and their boot back on your neck (which they never took off in the first place, they just wrapped it in velvet and convinced you it was an accessory--an excessory--that you needed to have and they sold you for the low, low cost of three easy installments of $14.95 plus shipping and handling and your identity/dignity/soul)
Everyone's trying to get it right

Everybody's working for the weekend because nobody will pay them a living wage so they can earn enough money between Monday and Friday--40 Hours and a Mule--so they can maybe accidentally spend some time with their fatherless children, enjoy the comfort their employers take for granted, stop and look into the eyes of their spouses to find something like love or satisfaction there instead of desperation despair-ation Despair-Nation. And they wonder why we rise up.

Rise up.


You want a piece of my heart?
Fuck you. Cut it out first. Nothing else is for sale.

Um... that's it. It's kind of awkward printed out. It sounds better at an open mic. It doesn't have the same impact if you can't hear the congas.




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