And All Blondes Are Bimbos

 

That white guy in the cap was probably raised on Cash
and baptized in a creek. Assume he’s just the sort
to get arrested outside the Wal-Mart; any time
he’ll break out in a rant punctuated by
mispronounced scripture, then get
back to some old fashioned
wife beating.

That woman there sporting the boyish haircut
striped up Kool-Aid red, thundering around
on rounded thighs, hasn’t seen the wonder
of a gym in ten years. She must live
on Sarah Lee ‘cause she’ll never
get a decent man.

Here’s a group of winners, there in the shadows:
four fresh delinquents, knock-off swag, sag-
ing Dr. Jays. Thugs of the future? Legit
Hip Hop bangers? You can never tell
until it’s too late. Just assume
the worst and don’t let ’em
smell fear.

Oh Good Lord, a collared priest — plotting
rape and plunder. Hail Mary. Hide away
all your kids. A Bushmills breathing
heathen crouches beneath sweet
unassuming smiles. What is
this world coming to?

Stay inside in the early hours when veiled
baby-stepping women push carriages East
toward Mecca, jabbering on in old
old foreign languages. iPhones
and A-Ks are strapped below
their long black dresses.
Terrorists!