Guidon

He's in the jungle.
It's dung, it's dung, it's DUNG.

He isn't stumbling:
Oh, he runs! -He RUNS.

He is a company
Of but one...of ONE.

He isn't gunning yet,
But if he does...he DOES.

He's no subject--George made a humbling call,
It's "self-evident" (still: they made 'im president)...

He wants what you
Want--you WANT, you WANT something which
ISN'T in your markets because
The Market's money-hungry,
Its stomach rumbles with,
Um, "a troubling pitch"--
It pitches PEOPLE in Its innards
And grins--SINCE It doesn't eat green, well...

Red: it runs. It RUNS.

It's not vegan.
Not now,
Nor ever WAS--

...and I'm accustomed
To teaching,
But pupils dilate
For acidic reasons.
(Their vision weakens.)

And the politics?
Dumb. -You're dumb, you're DUMB--

They built that white picket fence
To stick BETWEEN us--

He's in the jungle.
Hunter, hunting. -HUNTS.

For others.
With the pluck to run militia's colors.

-found in Liberty Tavern & Spirit's, scrawled on a napkin in hurried script.