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Aparently my "die, spammer" message was not obeyed. Here's some thoughts on the subject by degenerate RVI:
THE RIGOR MORTIS BOOGIE (Thanks for the Spam)
I. That Lo-Fi sound
comes down from out my
beautiful mother-of-pearl inlayed,
oft abused and too much played
Nuclear Jukebox of Doom --
all for what dimes and quarters cost.
It sings the sad song
of my generation lost
and of how the ten million
pay the cost required to kickstart
a garage band in hopes, not of art,
but of striking it rich
by imitating Mike Stipe,
that son of a bitch.
II. Goose-stepping has replaced the slam-dance
as an aerobically desirable excersize
for the Fascist masses of tender teen years --
seems their heads are filled to the brim
with advertisers' electric blue arc propaganda,
currents too deep to swim free from.
III. It's known the undead lack soul
so can't catch the groove of my ancient vinyl
wisdom; the Jukebox goes mastabah
and the winding-sheet's but another spiral
on the turntable. Freebird, Freebird, goddamn it!
Stomp your line-dance feet and twang away,
you who hope and do all for fame;
the Pumpkin's already Smashed, the Hole dug,
and all else is nothing but a bloody shame.
RVI, 8 NOV 1998

But wait, there's more! For the same price you get comments on Newt:
They say, "Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas,"
But I say, "Fuck pigs, get fucked till you plea
For mercy;" But swine are short on sympathy.
Newt Gingrich sits broken, brooding in the dark,
That Thing behind his eyes swimming like a shark,
But a shark driven mad by its blood's own mark.
Raging shark or lust-driven boar --
Either way, Newt's busted, down on the floor,
Momentarily off the dole -- still, hardly poor.
We'll see him again, our wicked boy Newt
Because the jerk's vain, needs cameras to shoot
Him every day; and then, of course, there's the power, the loot.
EPILOGUE: Go ahead and re-measure the throne,
This pig's Heaven Sent;
Go ahead, take out a substantial loan
And bet the bastard's our next president.
RVI, 8 NOV 1998

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