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THE WORLD WON'T WORK ANYMORE |
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by Charles Carreon Why?
I can't have a cup of coffee without gunning down a peasant.
I can't drive my car for all the rubber we stole and the oil, too.
I can't use the telephone with all that stolen copper wire stretching across our country
I can't watch TV for all the silent words the network newsman won't whisper (I'd like to shake him by the collar, damn him, why won't he just call it murder!)
I can't listen to the radio for all the inane gibberish they want to pour in my ear
While they are telling me to forget I hear it more clear
I want to go, go away from here
The earth stinks so much like buffalo blood and bad whiskey and the grass grows like iron,
like twisted words
I can't look at the bananas, they leer like speckled corpses
Even California raisins remind me of Indians who starved to death rather than hoe grapes under the benevolent eyes of the padres
The world doesn't work any more; I'm afraid it's my enemy.
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