Though, you shall not have a lot of time to speculate and wonder!
Idle thinking is a pastime that the man must rape and plunder!
See, he alone shall take the time to satisfy his needs,
So he engineers a system that must keep you on your knees!
From the Government, through its churches,
To the corporate priest and king...
The disrespect is tactile; it becomes an obvious thing.
See, he demands that YOU be humble (while he struts behind your back), and he works to keep you *hungry*—it's his job. He'll take you to the finish like the cowboy on a horse, and he'll spur you in the gut to hear you sob.
He's mean and arbitrary—is "convenienced" as can be.
He doesn't care you're hurting...he just locks his gate, you see!
...And forget about "due process," or any "rights" you have.
It's ALL at his convenience, and he'll use you like a rag!
You're nothing but a tool for him—it's YOU who's wearing down!
And It's YOU who heats his water to be treated like his clown!!!
This BEGS for an autonomy—the demand for some respect, where you've earned it by the fact that you've been born! For reasons "good" or "bad" (it doesn't matter one iota) it is you who does the dancing on his horn!
It's why you need autonomy—it's to disembowel your *kings*;
It's to strangle all the *priests* with steaming innards found therein,
And italics notwithstanding, in poetics always FREE,
I can make the intimation this is NOT hyperbole!
I'm provoked to hyperbolics! I'm betrayed! I'm burned and shy...
While, queerly, lights keep flying in my starry, starry skies.
Shadows are abiding in official slights of hand, and the news will do its job to fog things up. See, to keep a person fretful, uninformed, and in distraction is the money in his bank and gourmet coffee in his cup!
See, there's much that he's not telling
(Back behind the black-paned glass),
And excuses rendered, plainly, are ridiculous and crass.
It's a foul recrimination that I level at the shill
Who pretends that no conspiracies can exist against our will!
Posner is a poseur who proposes you've no sense!
Doc Shermer's mechanism is contrived and facile nonsense!
Rank disinformation is the order of the day,
And *most* abuse their power... as you close your eyes to pray.
He waxes words most *beautifully*—has you "sing a little song";
You felt just like an idiot that you had to string along...
Then he got into his Cadillac; he put his bible down,
And cooling off with AC, drove his house-girl out of town.
The view is million dollar, and appointments cost a lot.
And then there'll be the *party*, and the ladies all make *nice*,
But one, of needs, will walk outside to break from sordid vice.
The remaining "powder" noses, and the rest ignore the sky,
But the house-girl heaves her dinner on the saucer hovering by...
Distracting from the vomit or the games the rich men play,
A flying saucer's flying by as plain as sin or day!
The house-girl is astonished, then filled with monstrous shame—
Lost self-respect was palpable where she would not put a name!
Like it'd caught her in the open, and it saw her sad debasement—was a witness to revulsion marred and smeared. It stopped along its track, then seemed to bob just like a cork, and then it moved back in her face to get quite near!
She was frozen in her fearfulness, transfixed with fear you bet,
Forgotten was her sickness, but not the shame as yet.
Yes, she trembled at it's size, and the ease with which it moved—
Its soundlessness and shininess, it's STAR reflecting—huge!
She can see her own reflection (!)—see the vomit on her chin!
She can see the lights behind her like a fun house mirror, spin.
Then,—just *that* fast—it's on its way, like it hadn't even stopped.
And she wondered if it happened as, well out of site, it dropped.
She looked down into blackness like a yawning gulping throat,
And she teetered on the brink of what she knows she'd miss the most...
She listened to the night sound and she heard a hooting owl;
It asked her who she thought she was. It clearly sneered and scowled!
Then, pitched recriminations in the squeaking of the bats,
The muted forest's murmur coming back from silence black!
It was like a celebration that the truth had hovered passed!
She took a breath, her strength renewed. She laughed out loud at last!
The glibly hypocritical were doomed to sad despair,
And time was running out for red-neck pot-guts to her rear.
SHE would stay around to see the knashing of their teeth,
As they choked their words of *righteousness* in denial—disbelief.
She stepped down from the redwood; she squared her shoulders high!
She dressed and called a taxi. She would try again to try.
*Yes! Wholly unconsidered and even ignored by these mainstream "scientists" inexplicably duped to insentience, apparently, by "fringe morons and intellectual lightweights," is a massive evidentiary pathway known across seven categories to include:
(1) the Historical textual documents glyphed in soot and cut into stone or otherwise writ in ancient inks on cracking vellum,
(2) the extant Artistic Historical from primitives on the walls of their caves, through Middle-Age wood-cuts, to the masterpieces of the masters on rough canvas and slick gesso later on
(3) the quality Anecdotal reports backed up by multiple vetted witnesses and corresponding radar
(4) genuine Photographic efforts prior to digital photography provided by Dr. Bruce Maccabee, et sig al
(5) extant Physical Traces of landing UFOs as laboriously outlined by Ted Phillips and others
(6) the "wholly Personal" evidence, if you have any as I do and
(7) even the Mathematical, reader, as it is described in modern physics regarding the consequences of satisfying requirements accounting for "the formality of the actual occurrence" of something physical in this multi-verse (humanity "happened" so "others" must) but, specifically, as it is described in Probability One by Amir D. Aczel, PhD.
Alien intelligence, reader, is a certainty! Moreover, the evidence—entirely if ironically in concert with Fermi—is that they are here. Pack that pipe and spark it.