The Times They Are Changing

The times,
they are changing. The once, independent minstrel, has become a modern
musician, dancing like a mad monkey in a really terrible puppet show, dangling
by the strings held by the bloated corpse of a greedy banker, interrupted only
by the shrill shrieks of glee from the cesspool mouth of his prostitute wife,
who is constantly brushing the maggots from her rotted and diseased lips, and
smiling over her shoulder at the pedophile priest that has his hand up her ass
while he buggers her toddler sons and daughters. Meanwhile, the poets, the
players, and performers all, bow down and worship her husband, showing their
obeisance by licking the dripping, bloody secretions from his flaccid member,
proclaiming loudly to the world, “His is the staff of life, and his seed, the
nectar of the gods! All worship him, for he is truly divine!” What a clever
irony this is, for, in their blind obedience, they fail to see beneath his
Caesar’s robe, the army of mad money changers propping and shoring up his
skeletal legs and spine, feverishly stuffing the bodies of the poor working
class into the gaps and voids to keep it all upright. “More, more, more,” the
bean counters, the accountants, yell into the cancerous cell-phone computers
that sprout from their heads like demonic horns! “More, more, more,” they
loudly chant in a mad mantra, as they place orders for more virginal
cheerleaders to be bent over the altar of the national pastime, and sodomized
with oversized I-pods so that the entire spectacle may be streamed live to the
waiting, salivating in anticipation, democratic, free world. “God Bless
America,” everyone cries at the top of their voices! “It is our god given duty,
to bring the rest of the world to this wondrous enlightenment!” “More, more,
more, “ the accountants scream to the machine! “We must have more, and we want
bigger I-pods, we want to see those virginal asses ripped and bleeding, torn
beyond repair, so we may stand revealed, as the true masters of all this
wonderment!”

          All the while, in a little café on a
backstreet in a little town in Italy, Mephistopheles is kicking back, drinking
his espresso, smoking a Lucky Strike, and grooving to the sounds of Vivaldi.
Across from him sits a willowy redhead, smirking behind her cappuccino, she
flippantly chirps, “You know, this is all your doing!” Without hesitation, he
replies, “ Oh no, you can’t lay this at my feet. I quit this business a long
time ago. When he,” pointing to the sky, “ fired me for doing the very thing he
hired me to do, I washed my hands of the whole mess. When he gave these
assholes free will, he opened the door for this shit! Now that it’s not working
out in the way he anticipated, he is just using me as the goat! I am not having
it! Let him and his boy stew in their own mess, I don't really care anymore,"