pure blood

what joy it is to be a fascist pig
what merry laughter here
in muck of art with ink
and neatly polished broken twig
the ecstasy of words on page
snorted grunted in this hog-tied age

what heaven it is to duckstep
what ode to life we dream
in a crooked cross of cliche
neatly polished for what seems
the raputure of ideas inserted
where an audience's mind's deserted

grope for slop, and heil the fatherland
of little big minds that do not understand
poetry is not art if it's too grand
for the unembellished mind of everyman.