Hatebook strikes again..

They don’t want our racist views,

to take center stage and blow our fuse.

But I’d like to have an alternative muse,

that were bound by our brothers,

no matter the hues.


Hugh wasn’t huge,

he rarely stood tall.

Didn’t know if he loved,

or could be loved at all.

but respect he had from all and sundry,

cause he worked hard for a better laundry.


He gave ME some helpful tips,

he showed ME how life could be hips.

Told me

whas’ imporan’

But now its lost,

the boomers be dormant.


Sandwiched between

the silent gen,

The boomers


why are z-gens,

my friend.


Why reincarnate

into this place,

did god want my life,

full of disgrace.


Learning from hell,

mourning for heaven,

how long did it take me,

to go to eleven.


Happy to service,

hoping for peace,

bend on destruction,

was never the case.


Sixty three cousins,

last I count,

all though some are gone,

none are devout.


We give lip service,

to the great lord Christ,

donate our hard earned,

watch how its spent twice.


First on the church,

that gathers up dust,

telling of the dirt,

we’ll be reaching all of us.


Then to the servants,

that are spreading the fud,

maybe some will drop

off with a thud.


The FOMO experts,

with bands and mics,

who’ll condemn us to service,

that’ll be their device.


They’ve convinced themselves,

that we want to hear,

how to improve,

and who to fear.


But I’ll let you know,

there’s no such thing,

one day you’ll see,

there’s other life’s in a spin.


They’ve been put there,

with mountains of hate,

livelong wars,

no end to debate.


They assert,

that they know their place,

valuable indeed,

despite their race.


Taking no,


throwing mud,

at whatever they see.


And I’ve spoken,

about this plan,

for God to have,

a better man.


One who’ll love,

and show the way,

scratch our backs,

and let us pray.


One who’ll wave,

and blow a kiss,

one who’ll smile,

and lend us his.


One who’ll study,

read and see,

experiment with,



Make it simple,

remove the rules,

leave them for,

the lesser fools.


Showing love,

learning life,

departing from,

all this strife.


So blessed are the builder boys,

the engineers and all their toys.

Blessed are the maintenance men,

they’re fighting entropy till the end.

Blessed are factory hands,

without their help we’d live in vans.


Blessed are,

the corporate leaders,

the venture capitalists,

the angel investors.


Blessed are,

those that walk,

those that run,

not those that talk.


Blessed are,

those that pray,

those that mark,

this as the day.


Blessed are,

never mind,

not to worry,

its patsy time.




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