The overweight bum holds out his pampered hand
and requests, unabashedly,
“Change.”
So I stop and snap, politely,
“The election’s over;
you can stop campaigning.”
I’d normally toss him a buck,
but they’re getting harder and harder
to obtain, impossible to retain
since the record companies sued me —
175-zillion Monopoly dollars
for pirating “The Times They Are a-Changin’” —
and the bank’s demanding I repay
that $100K loan I took out
to cover tuition when I was 18,
too young for a cold one,
but ripe for credit crunch
exploitation.
But I guess I’ll find a job someday
with my BA
in Contemporary American BS:
diggin’ for dimes
but pickin’ up
pennies.
This whirlwind black-hole avaricious
economy
has sucked all the Change out of me,
leaving the bitter copper taste
of pennies, like phlegmy blood,
lining my throat with a pinch.
