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4 5 6 7 all good cretins go to heaven
there is no stoppin the cretins from hoppin
you gotta keep it beatin for all the hoppin cretins
cretin!
cretin!
gonna go for a whirl with my cretin girl
my feet wont stop doin the cretin hop
cretin!
cretin!
1 2 3 4 cretins wanna hop some more
4 5 6 7 all good cretons go to heaven
(insert nasty guitar riff here)
theres no stopping the cretons from hopping-
Ramones.


“just cant do it, take a walk pal”

I dunno how I could have expected him to
Appreciate the #.
In a world where the term billion is thrown around
Every other moment (minute, flash of a thought and daily daydream)

But those smaller #’s put into proper perspective
carry huge weight
a weight to heavy for anyone I know to bear
(that is why they have cut the cord
sliced the horror away from it
the face is equated as a #
Just 1 of the hundreds
Just 1 of the thousands
and so on
I cant blame them)

Keep in mind that on Wednesday
there will be people celebrating while
we honor and remember and hurt

in some dank cave
or an apartment over a deli
with windows looking out on an alley and not on the street

in some shanty town
on the outskirts of some shithole country
where tribal leaders make
crimes against humanity
a daily occurrence
there will be hands turned up towards the sky
and people out of breath from all the dancing and cheering,
just like there was in Brooklyn and in Palestine
and countless other places a year and a day ago

now next month or next year
some of us might be killed
my wife, yours maybe

so if it becomes your turn to be a martyr
hold your head high as it tears off your shoulders
be proud cause we now have something worthwhile
to die for

we as Americans are considered
brash fat lazy rude opinionated the list goes on (and on)
we might be all of that I do not know
what I do know

being American is fuking cool
(you get it now?)
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I heard a line that interested me
“God took them to start a new colony”

now it didn’t interest me because of god
I cant comprehend that

It was the colony idea,
and the thought of all the missing kids faces on paper
The 1’s that float thru the air
come to me in the mail
and are stuck, stapled to wood on my drive to work
When the sun is down and the shadows are a lot different.

So sitting here guzzling coffee
I wonder if it isn’t aliens
Smuggling these children
Setting up a colony
On a far off planet
Maybe making chess moves
Setting up certain situations
Giving them a hard hand to play
Or an easy 1
Who the fuk knows

Maybe its slave labor

Maybe it isn’t aliens
At all, maybe its just some
Confused guy who is adding to a collection

Just something I wonder about
It is another thought
Another moment when my eyes are open
But no one is home