You wail and say “how could we?” You wring your hands with guilt You speak of grief and sympathy Toward the ones you killed I don’t believe the sorrow As your army bombs a city I know you’ll bomb again tomorrow Despite your self-indulgent pity  

This is a song not to celebrate a bank It is no longer full of money and if you own its stock you only now hear the wails as it tanks. Or maybe a sound like the wind in the trees on the hills, which is the rustling of the thousand dollar bills that bankers took from their government bailout, while angry taxpayers fumed and flailed about. Congressional representative seem unconcerned by the question of who lives in marble halls and who has a home no more to live in. Banks foreclose on people w...

From Obama a stimulus plan for the good of the poor working man The rich said “no dice, It’s too high a price” But conservatives hadn’t a plan What became of the surplus of Clinton? “It got lost in Iraq”, said Bush, winkin’ But we know his tax breaks were a part of the stakes To enrich the most rich was his thinkin’ The Republicans moan and they whine, upset that it’s no longer time for fat CEOs to steal blindly from those who work hard f...

The food we eat has lost its taste. It’s fructose, salt and carageenan. Subsidies encourage waste; I think I might become a vegan. Hogs in pens shit day and night- - lagoons of shit that poison rivers. Unwashed produce causes fright as it jaundices livers. Poultry’s tortured, sows imprisoned, calves see barely light of day. Our forebears never envisioned we’d eat food produced this way. The factory farm is the new gulag. If you saw what happens in it I am sure you'd quickly...

Cracks and lines on the mirror traverse your face. Is your hair turning white, or is that coke dust from your last binge? How old you’ve gotten In a few short years. Blown-back from the mountaintop you got lost in the blizzard. Better hope someone comes looking for you.

There once was a woman named Hillary Whose foes she just wanted to pillory She went on the attack She said “but he’s black,” What kind of jerks does she think are we? A young Senator named Obama Had a name that could rhyme with Osama And a middle, Hussein, It became a refrain On the ceaseless right-wing hate-o-rama The candidate’s name was McCain Some said he was slightly insane He courted the loons And the right-wing buffoons We’ll be through the first day of his reign

Urbis is home to some writers who, like many UFO sighters, imagine vividly ideas quite riddley, penned in opaque lines, not light verse. Some writers who call Urbis home, Should not be allowed far to roam, Without dictionary, Or spell check, verily, For their typos cause readers to groan. There was a young writer on Urbis, whose writing pretentious and mirthless lacked rhyme and reason, and wisdom’s season; Quite frankly, I thought it was worthless.

There once was a writer on Urbis, whose writing lacked focus and purpose; he asked for advice, but failed to revise, and continued to tire us and irk us.

The troops are worn out, the Army stretched thin, we’re recruiting delinquents, the old and the dim. We got rid of the gays, to preserve the troops’ purity. Even those who spoke Arabic, no matter how fluently. (Mistakes will be made, for lack of translation. But isn’t that better than eternal damnation?) We’re telling the soldiers “One more tour of duty.” The program’s called “stop loss;” it might cause mutiny. The Humvees are patched with armor homemade, that won’t stop the bombs or rocket g...