Whitey’s Got a Jones
whitey’s got a jones
whitey’s got a jones.
murder’s his dope,
his daily fix. throwing
on the blues, he
makes the scene,
makes the score,
shoots up the black.
whitey’s got a jones
and he don’t care.
wants no rehab,
no cure, he likes the
rush, loves the hate.
whitey’s got a jones.
whitey’s got a jones.
Recommended for You
The Price of Cruelty
He leans against
the auto-parts
building, watching
with blood-red eyes.
She slumps on a bench,
in a murderous trance
at the train station.
A group huddles
in the burnt field next
to the bowling alley,
sharing a bottle,
shouting in foreign
tongues. They aren’t
armed. Not yet.
But soon. Soon
they’ll lather
on war paint
and crouch
at the dark ridge,
soon arrows will fly.
An Optimist at Heart
You think we won the Revolutionary
War? Just ask the British Royalty
sweeping into New York tonight
to a throng of ass-kissing Americans.
You think we won the Civil War?
Just ask the ghosts of recently murdered
African Americans what they think
about that. You think we’re the
defenders of the weak and champions
of human rights? Just ask the kids
waiting on death in the Gaza. You
think sanity and reason will make
a comeback? Just turn on the Home
Shopping Channel for ten minutes.
You think our leaders know what
the fuck they’re doing? Just ask
them why we’ve been killing
people in Afghanistan for 15 years.
You think we’ll ever figure out
how to get ourselves out of this
nightmare? Just look in the mirror.
Paul Lojeski
The opinions expressed here are solely the author's and do not reflect the opinions or beliefs of the Hollywood Progressive.
