Put me on a shelf,
Somewhere on aisle three,
Between peas and collard greens.
Pass the can opener,
Take a hit.
Grind my top,
Scoop out my soul.
Label me fuckin’ awesome
And you get a straight shooter.
Label me literary
Get me on The New Yorker.
Just label me so I’m not ignored.
That’d be the worst.
Don’t mind the gelatinous goo.
The beans between teeth.
Throw in the campfire and cowboy,
I need to get away for a while.
Whatever you do keep laughing.
Take the ironical bait,
While the ignorant slip through our fingers.
Quick, before we put on our glasses
And see the rise of the brand.
It’ll rhyme with Drumpf
And taste like steaks
Laced with salmonella and stupid,
With a dash of racism and misogyny.
Let me stand on my soapbox a little longer,
The purge feels good.
Call me what you will
Just be sure to put a label on it so it could
Fit nicely on a shelf, cuz the grocer’s just doing his job, man.
Screw subtlety, it doesn’t exist anymore.
No one has time.
Stay in your lane, boy, you’re in drivers Ed now.
Eyes flashing between the dotted white lines,
Pass that snowbird, driving through retirement
And cemented views.
Pass! Before you’re sold!
No. No. Stay neutral.
Leave politics alone
So the corrupt can rise.
Whatever you do, keep your brand alive.
Emblazed in gold, humility is dead.
Having a free thought?
Ask your doctor,
There may a prescription that’s right for you.
But it just may be a lobotomy.
-S. S. Hicks