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.