Magazine People

Magazine People
They are ruined radishes
Playful carrots in the field
Felled cabbages in baskets
Brussel Sprouts whose storks
Have lost their zeal

They are greens gone black
Chard that's gone hard
All the wet lettuces of a farmer's yard
They are onions that smell
And garlic gone rotten
And piles of peas gone soggy at the bottom
Strung out parsnips and hung up runner beans
And this is what I think of their magazine

Their world is a balderdash
Their lives are a joke
They fill up their time
With mirrors and smoke
And none of them know
What they really mean
Now this is what I think of their magazine

They are liars and cheats
And cowards and scoundrels
Sheep that bleat
Horses hooves and pigs feet
And rotten chicken dirty meat
Fouled by the fowl it comes from

They're over-salted pork
And twisted metal fork
That gets stuck their teeth
And jerks
And all the above and some underneath
I can ascribe to my general belief
That all their words are daisies under a mower
Headless ineffective
An insult to the sewer
And soon their seed dies
For it falls on fallow ground

And their crops will fail
Their birds make no sound
It will become like after
On nuclear scene
Now this is what I wish for their bloody magazine

They could make it better
But their vision is so mean
No hope for the future
Only keep doing what is clean
And sanitary and safe
And nothing worth spit
Just a puddle of martyr's blood
Has washed down their screen

And their front covers lie
About what has been
And which celebrity does what
With whom and in between
There lies nothing of substance
Nothing to glean
Just another pack of lies
With each new page that's seen

And this is what I think of their magazine