2001 SPACE ODYSSEY Share the watering hole or own it: you choose
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The Marx Industrial Complex
by John Kendall Hawkins
I'm of the thought that Karl Marx and Snowball
and the graffitti postures on the wall
are beyond my ken
and require hermeneutics men
(not women, except for Dianne Keaton, natch,
who may offer little light, but brings her snatch)
for I am far too weak of mind
to understand the economic double bind --
that bookish spiral staircase,
that genome of the human race --
that's driven simple balding history:
It's damn or be damned, no mystery;
throw that first rock or be stoned,
bebop bone or be bop-boned.
We're at The End, quoth Francis F*ck-yo-mama,
in dimestore comic book Hegel. (¡Ay, caramba!)
Becomes a bestseller, mucho egg-swellian,
then he recants, rewrites, how Hegelian.
We need store-bought ideas, out-of-the box
memes and tropes to like, the daily pox.
We don't need no stinkin' badges
no wisecrackin' dishliquid Madges
from the fake news mind-massaging media;
the truth's simple, not an encyclopedia.
We don't need men who bring their lumber
and lord over, as if the rest of us doth slumber,
ripe for malappropriations
and the lesser of multiple opiations.
We know the score: It's all contained
in the Golden Rule, the rock abstained
and not thrown
no bebop bone.
O find a way to get off the sizzle grid
before you "anger" some algorithmical AI's id.