wearing my convictions like a condiment stain
all catch up to throw down on the great unwashed
a bleached tale wagging the dog, people
get ready there’s a change a comin’
you can’t speak truth to power unless you
can translate grievance to a balance sheet
the prime time bottom line that commodifies
the capitalist bookends; myth and money
and the manifest destiny of neighbors, sons,
and daughters murdered en masse in your neck
of the woods
Happy Campers master the rhetorical devices of the rent-seeking. Lease the lyric and sing your sad song. Others will hum along, if your words chorus the requisite courage.
You Can’t Speak Grievance, You Can Only Translate It.
NaPoWriMo April 3 2017