Spoil the Rod

(Doodle Bug)

'Babe I seen you',

I know it was you....

There was lightning and dancing,

A royal barque floating-

Down rivers of dreamers, with the fat cats in beamers

A band like the wind in the trees,

I tell you sirens were listnin' and

call girls were whistlin'

at the college kids cruisin'

with their tops down in downtown and

The radio kept talkin'...

about riots at redrocks

the trekkies with dredlocks

who escaped from the dead lots

raging in Bedrock

creating a gridlock with

store ownin', bus tourin'

boys with credentials

and their honey blonde bombshells

and baby faced barbies

that lay by their cool pools, and

Cursed at the young girls

who swam in the fountains

in the parks in the mountains 

of spent Kleenex boxes

Flung from edges of ledges

And landing by bus stops and

Street corner sex shops

That promise a real thrill, for

The pork chops in Barber shops, and...

Liquid was Jelly.....'Bean, Man she said she was eighteen'

Making the scene,

by riding the Ponies

and roping the phonies with

Slick swinging barter

of boot straps and garters,

and lickin' the chickens

with straights and hot flushes

was easy for Ray

who was used to keeping the tigers at bay-

with clipboards and bar stools

and quick picking carpools

washing the windows

Of the wheelers and dealers

Who are calling the shots

By connecting the dots

And filling the cots, In lands

that are dying from:

jet lag and coal slag

and windbags with silk flags

who hate their Mothers

for loving their brothers

and feeding their children

with their Brown breasts bursting

from Crying and calling

for sons who are lying

in Pools of Red Slaughter.

Protecting their daughters

from Invisible beasts, and

Jazz city beats, who

Howl in the streets

and rage in the allies

with their trash can Sallies

Standing on spires walking on wires, 

In the bathrooms of bar rooms

And the backrooms of backstreets

With the spades and the Jacks

in their black Cadillacs, Searching

for needles of truth

that can't be told

by the junkies of flunkies

who write the shit

that sits on the shelves

of dime store dragons, and

on the seats of mini wagons, that

Blaze down highways of hot coals

by fields full of dry holes

that once filled the clay bowls of

Sun dancing, Deer stalking,

soul singing, wind walking

sense growing, cactus talking-

light living lovers of

life giving mothers, who

Cried the birth of Angels,

And bore the curse of Man