poem: bubba-lithe

Moammar in his sleek silver travolta
disco ultra sheen,
acquiescent fetch-bubba of the lithe
ruling class:
ring your bells, child
this ain't your mama's
ruling elite, it festers
the gruel right out
from under your feet:
it ain't like you didn't see it
comin'. Give Imelda a call,
see can she give you
some red rubies
get you on home to your
disco Kansas:
this will be the grill
you never wished exposed:
them derricks ain't exactly
toys, boy-toy-grabbin'
artifacts of world-gone-by
hubbalub the rightwing
authenticity of prurient labor,
nab the last bit o'honey
for the sugar-foxes
at the bank - swiss-fried
in all likelihood -
i'd say the quick exit
makes best for keepin
the sheen on your shine,
boogie with respect to the average
fare, it's an inquisition on which
you just might
want to pass: smokey seconds,
stevie's uptight, and you,
bloody amigo, best be
on
yo
way.