Mother Hubbard

Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard,
To give her poor dog a cracker;
When she came there,
The cupboard was bare,
And none of her people would back her.

She rode on her Harley
To sound the alarm;
When she came back
Her rant was still warm!

She posted a YouTube
To challenge the masses;
When she came back
They had covered their asses.

Propaganda of the Poem

Here’s a pastoral ballad from the great American poet Eric B. ( not the one who used to drop lyrics with Rakim – I mean the one from Colorado who ran for mayor of San Francisco once) and a prophetic tribute to the noble warriors for Social Justice such as now swarm in the streets of many U.S. cities. Not sure what brought the professional agitators out  – someone got shot somewhere, or something like that.

Ferguson thug hopestyle

Riot: the unbeatable high Adrenalin shoots your nerves to the sky
Everyone knows this town is gonna blow And it’s all gonna blow right now
Now you can smash all the windows that you want
All you really need are some friends and a rock
Throwing a brick never felt so damn good
Smash more glassScream with a laugh
And wallow with the crowds / Watch them kicking peoples’ ass
But you get to the place / where the real slavedrivers live
It’s walled off by the riot squad / Aiming guns right at your head
So you turn right aroundAnd play right into their hands
And set your own neighborhood / Burning to the ground instead
Riot: the unbeatable high Riot: shoots your nerves to the sky
Riot: playing into their hands
Tomorrow you’re homeless Tonight it’s a blast!
Get your kicks in quick / They’re callin’ the national guard
Now could be your only chance / To torch a police car
Climb the roof, kick the siren in / And jump and yelp for joy
Quickly – dive back in the crowd Slip away, now don’t get caught
Let’s loot the spiffy hi-fi store / Grab as much as you can hold
Pray your full arms don’t fall off / Here comes the owner with a gun
Riot: the unbeatable high Riot: shoots your nerves to the sky
Riot: playing into their hands
Tomorrow you’re homeless Tonight it’s a blast!
[♪♫♪ BREAK ♫♫]
The barricades spring up from nowhereCops in helmets line the lines
Shotguns prod into your bellies / The trigger fingers want an excuse… NOW !
The raging mob has lost its nerve / There’s more of us but who goes first
No one dares to cross the line / The cops know that they’ve won
It’s all over but not quite / The pigs have just begun to fight
They club your heads, kick your teethPolice can riot all that they please
Riot: the unbeatable high Riot: shoots your nerves to the sky
Riot: playing into their hands
Tomorrow you’re homeless Tonight it’s a blast!
Tomorrow you’re homeless…  tonight it’s a blast…

“Riot” by Dead Kennedys [1982]

Hands Up, Ferguson

Ferguson thug hopestyle

Finish the crackers. Grab a smoke . . .
of Ferguson my muse will sing.
A call to arms—God’s fires to stoke;
let Truth and Freedom ring!

Take to the streets; avenge this wrong
and hasten the end of racist rule.
Justice, though it may tarry long
will find its target in the duel.

Young Michael Brown, like all true saints
found himself craving Swisher Sweets.
He robbed a store, whose camera paints
impartial portrait. In the streets

the thief refused to be detained
and so threw off police restraint.
Though sin escaped, the Law remained
and made a martyr of this saint.

The agitators did their thing:
inflaming thugs to smash and loot,
while racists baited hooks, to string
the press. Officials followed suit.

Angels, although not always kind,
do not display this attitude—
aware of how the police mind
responds to such ingratitude.

We ought to thank the police force
for showing mercy under stress.
The culprit chose a foolish course
and made a God-awful mess.

Prince Michael met ignoble fate
(that ghetto-Christ, that righteous youth)
His sacrifice in vain—though great,
could not impede the march of Truth.

Ferguson, our eyes turn towards you . . .
are you now able to admit
while reality rewards you
that looting and lying ain’t shit?

IMAGE CREDIT: time.com