No. There will be no revolution.
Not this week. Not even next.
They will sit on their overstuffed sofas,
Watch, on their 3D TVs,
as the disgruntled marchers march,
to the Temple of Cash,
that great grinning god of the capitalist ideal,
as if, all of them,
are quiet cows on the way to sacrificial slaughter,
Watch, as they are greeted there
by smiling uniformed pastor-supporters
with perfumed pepper sedating sprays,
Watch, as they cringe, and retreat;
then say to their staring progeny, See, those
are the Unbelievers, the unkempt
Beat-nicks who, before they lost their jobs,
made fun of us
and just because we’ve got more flesh than they do. and eat hamburgers.
Soon they’ll be at our doors too,
trying to make us change,
become like the gay prancing butterflies of their entourage.
But we’ll be ready. I’ll show you how
to shoot that gun we keep in the closet.
I’ll show you how to be a true-blood
American from head to toe.