ROOM

The boy in the wheelchair wears special pants;
the boy in the wheelchair wears special pants.
They have one long leg and one stump leg;
they have one long leg and one stump leg.
Special, boy? Have wears the leg the leg.
And long, they wheelchair pants. In one, stump one.

So he lost half a leg defending our country;
so he lost half a leg defending our country
And now he wants to ride the subway with us;
and now he wants to ride the subway with us.
Now, a subway country, and leg to ride the with.
Us wants defending, so he half he. Lost.

His girlfriend wheels him through the doors;
his girlfriend wheels him through the doors.
We all give them plenty of room;
we all give them plenty of room.
Of doors we wheels through him.
The girlfriend, his room, all. Them give plenty.

He have through with defending us, so we give him half the pants.
Now girlfriend wheels a wheelchair to the long subway ride.
They them plenty special room, one wants.
One boy in all, and he wears his stump.
The leg, the leg, the leg—
and doors. Of our lost country.

UNIMPRESSING

I wish they’d know my whole self quick
for, over time, I’m very pleasant.
But first impressions with them stick
so I am unemployed, at present.

HURRY GOD

My money stalks me while I sleep.
It’s closing quickly on my soul.
So: if God wants my soul to keep,
He’d best be getting on a roll.

DIVORCE COURT

When love is lost, rich spouses lose discretion,
and lock each other out of their new houses.
They let their anger rule their public battles
and waste their therapy on private vengeance
and waster their fortunes fighting over dollars.
The end of love leaves quite a poor impression.

We foolish young folks carry the impression
that love grants us great powers of discretion;
that love is blind and doesn’t care for dollars.
But please do put those padlocks on your houses.
Don’t think you are immune at all to vengeance;
you need to steel yourself for ugly battles.

Yet…if we spend time contemplating battles
we walk away with quite a bleak impression,
believing love leads endlessly to vengeance.
Perhaps we ought to exercise discretion
before we tear down other people’s houses.
Perhaps our jealous eyes begrudge their dollars.

But wait! How did they gain those deadly dollars?
Does not gold flow, like blood, from rich men’s battles?
They use it up with building extra houses
so they don’t have to share; that’s my impression.
(Though I’m still sorely lacking in discretion.)
These buccaneers deserve the Court’s swift vengeance.

And yet, in calling down this holy vengeance
Do I not also slave myself to dollars?
How could I so abuse my own discretion
to waste time recapitulating battles,
thus giving the unfortunate impression
I care at all what happens to their houses—

No! I say; good riddance to those houses,
and let foreclosure serve as public vengeance;
let everyone depart with the impression
that life is shit if lived only for dollars.
I’ve had it up to here with rich folks’ battles;
I’ve lost the heart to grant them that discretion.

There is no love in houses built on dollars,
so they deserve their vengeance and its battles;
love makes a poor impression on discretion.