"Get Your Masses Off The Couch" By Michael Winter

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"Cheers! A score! "Just one more!"
Moist meaty palms slap, boots pound upon the floor.
Blind, hoisting ale pints upon, (how grand to be alive!)
No mind beyond the next completed pass, the hit,
the cricket swarm, the brutal scrum
shared as if they took the hit, enthralled amongst their chums.
All Proxy joy for grown boys, a drug to sleep the soul.

Purchasing wholesale the ball of wax rolled well
the few create it for the many,
the illusion of a heaven not knowing they/'/re in a living hell.
Banners from these unseen rulers, plastering every sport,
an infiltration underway by forces vastly dark,
nary chance for spark of light in souls as those, no glow of any sort.

From gladiator/'/s hack to NASCAR/'/s roaring track,
the circus made by those we/'/ve paid
with lives unlived, in dreams stillborn,
ever us, two legged sheep, begging to be shorn.

You foul, beautiful things, Dorian all;
Know this, your grip it slips,
eyes now fall on you, slipping of the ball,
and oh! soon to feel the scorch, our rage.
Swear I, na/'/ will save the burn you/'/ve earned ye/'/ demon spawn,
destined all to fall in this end of age.

Seeping blood of rivers red, wars reap
heaped bodies trained; to kill, to die,
and we fools pay to train our sons for that, and ever so much more.
We/'/ve bought the poisons raining down
on proxy food not grown in ground,
our water metaled, thus drained I.Q.,
and working well, this fashioned hell,
/'/tis plain! Just look at them /'/tween slurp and chew!
"Oh heaven! You said you had our backs,
Jesus saves us, right? He said so, Yes, He did,
No matter what we do."

But here we are, most just little Buddhas;
Bubbles strong against these beating truths,
so they watch the scry punch us, via/'/ black screen
sorcery to laugh, to kill or cry.
The rub? We pay dear for the spell of lull and lust, deep /'/pon every night.

Though not all of us, some few remain to create, to post, to write;
indeed, millions feel it, the doom; though cower and do naught,
but WE do not comply. (Nor should YOU!).
We wage back on you this war you spewed, now this battle/'/s /'/pon your door,
and we come not with books or prophesy, but lead and rope, until your lineage is no more."

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