Pigs at the Trough

They don't listen. Unless we spend $1000 a plate. I cooked for almost a decade and I can tell you no dish is worth $1000. Of course, if it means they'll craft a bill for you, or slip it into another, that works too. Maybe you've invested in Shell or Exxon Mobil, or BP, then you might not send an impotent e-mail telling Bush and his cronies to be tough on Darfur. After all, China backs them; don't want to upset the cuddly dragon. Thieves. All of them, thieves; they steel our dreams and sell them back to us at a price we can't afford, and a reality we'd never have bought. They get richer, we get fucked. Maybe Marx was right. Hitting these keys with forceful accuracy is still not that much more rewarding. Pigs. Fat, pink, wallowing in their own shit, feeding on each other's waste - pigs. Stop giving them feed. Stop supporting. Stop giving. Start speaking.

Create your own reality that you approve of.
Perhaps call it a dream.
Share it with others.
See what they think.
Craft a better future.

Dream together
live together
fight no one.