June the first,
what could be worse.
US riots,
and tonnes of pilots.
Lucky its twenty twenty,
and here in the land of plenty.
The pentigon cant sleep,
there’s many machines to keep.
And everyones going beep beep.
Losing control and hope,
just don’t be asking the pope.
Complaining doesn’t help,
better sell kelp,
Than be terrestrializing dope.
Power and energy remain,
in quantities unrestrained.
Together we stand,
raising neighbours hand,
four letter words avoided.
They have the ultimate truth,
same as the old and youth.
But the words they choose,
dont seem to amuse,
perpetually ordered from struth.
Your third eye’s penial gland,
might tell you where you stand.
If its straight as a die,
And you exactly know why,
Doesn’t your heart now understand?
When your stomach jumps,
into throaty lumps.
And your ears go colored crimson
And the world at large,
Just jumped your guard,
Ego’s ‘r flaring’n raging.
But you kept your cool,
Just making stools,
timber not provided.