Muttsy Hugbars Sings the Ballad of the Ninety-nine Percent

We dance in a country grown unreal and strange.
Only we two two-step to this back-beat exchange.
For we two chances of lost conversations hear,
and we sing the forgotten song of chanticleer.

These thick words, fat worms, gesticulate,
striking our genitals with God's divine-weight.
My cockroach mustache crawls across your cheek
and reeks of my cologne, Shriekwood Mystique.

The new millennium pirouettes on the floor with us,
dancing a sextant to Ultima Thule, by way of Cygnus.
And always the multitude, the hollow-eyed dreamers obey;
they left-foot, right-foot — so hap-hap-happy and so fey.

And we slog our mazurkas on the looted dream of tomorrow —
a Wall Street treasure-horde — and we sing a song of sorrow.
And we shag and fuck and toil for what it's worth.
Sex — procreation — will usurp the rulers of this Earth.