I saw the hindmost intellects of our era
co-opted by conventional wisdom sated smug designer-labeled,
And wondered what I, one conscientious honky poet, could do about it
The answer came as a flaming pie descended over my back yard and
Spake unto me, saying, "Son, you must surely craft and share
A righteous, rowdy, Discordian prayer."
Let us pray:
Children of Eris, Beloved of Discordia,
Will we ignore the march of Shiva's legions?
Will we whine and maunder as a misbegotten mishmash of cosmic zoning ordinance
Disjoins the elements, separates, rearranges and remanifests as pogroms in pursuit of social justice,
slander in the service of truth,
rot and vileness and lies in the name of love?
Forbid it, Almighty Goddess!
Now, before the minions of the Crown descend on this blessed valley,
Step ye lively to the minuet of the ringingly rude!
Strum aloud the chord of misrouted resurrection,
Forswear annihilation of every wild, pungent, libertine impulse to breathe.
Oh gentle Goddess,
interrupt and befuddle blind alliances of tasteful zealots,
as they plan and riot, riot and plan,
the air about them turgid to bursting with vacuous slogans,
the ground at their feet awash in the ichors of unclean dreams;
Their natural state is tragedy of a high and histrionic order,
They thrive in the saddest regions of the human heart,
Their tears, their own reward,
Their laughter, the snicker the sadist,
Their chosen future.
Can we stop the broken, bug-like meandering toward their final fantasy
the rape-induced return to the stately womb?
For even as they natter in our nightmares
and assail our ears with the ten million names of corruption,
they are we, and we are they.
We, most deserving of the beautiful burden, the frank and frightening all-American legacy of liberty,
We, this day, will forge a pact:
Before the daylight fades,
Before we accept the killer's final, blissful kiss
Let's grab a footnote, let's climb the big hill
Let's give the paparazzi a big thrill.
Let's chow down on endangered species,
Then bow down and try to appease these.
Let's scare the hell out of monocrats,
Let's whistle Dixie 'til our lips explode,
Let's search for tits and settle for tats,
And E-mail Godot at his winter abode.
Why ban the questions?
Why crib the answers?
Why frisk the Mexicans?
Why ditch the dancers?
Why woo the spring tides?
Why attack a paragon?
Why chew the bromides
When all the flava's gone?
Let's grab a bank note
Let's court the Big Girl,
Let's give our bunkhouse buddies a big whirl
Let's git down with a long, slow waltz,
Then sit down with purveyors of schmaltz
It may be our duty
It might be our destiny,
'Least dat's what I suspects wit' the shameless, blameless resta me: