October 3 by The Running Son
♦ the ruler rap ♦
You cannot see me… behind my Rolex and green stacks, between the yes-men and roadies–gets hard to breathe and I mean that. Gets hard to trust and you’ve seen that. Gets hard to screen out the weasels or lean back, relax and feel gratitude among these appeasing people.
Padlocks keep honest men honest, but money makes them cagey, like vultures salivating while the money remains stable. Under-the-table backhand deals incubating? That’s the golden egg and the chicken that hatched it swapping GMO’s, DNA, and fornicating.
I’ve become unrelatable, but top rated, labeled Grade A Pasteurized among the Real Housewives: a horror story behind an American fable. A million channels of cable cannot satiate. Take this plate away, my palate can’t concentrate the way these garnishes are suspiciously straight, and prearranged.
Painted my rec-room 50 Shades of Grey, with a stripper pole. Bought a Papal Bull off eBay. I keep it under glass and pray twice daily in case I break some cardinal rule. Am I the ruler of the world or just a fool? It’s ok, it’s cool. I’ll run for president. Won’t pay one red cent when I buy off the electoral pool.
by Jim Aldrich (:
Written in the comment section for The Poetry Question
Daily Prompt: You wake up one morning to find that you have been given the thing you want most in the world. Describe how this ruins your life.
Also for the Daily Post daily prompt:LEADER
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.