Size Matters

Only some marketing whore, used to dealing in lies
Could attach a deceptive label such as "Fun Size"
To a candy bar that now doesn't comprise
Much more that a nibble or bite.
Tell me, Ms. Contemptible Corporate Shill,
When you go out at night to drink your fill,
To dull your inhibitions til your voice gets shrill,
Would you rather guzzle a shot of beer or a pint?

You unctuous twit, your use of language is slick,
But when you go out looking for love, or a quick
Bedroom romp, would you a ten inch member pick
Or a little stubby five inch "Fun Size" friend?
Sure, selling lies will always be your vocation
But if you swear that you'd prefer a two day vacation
To a couple of weeks in some exotic location,
I'd find that falsehood hard to comprehend.

You show us a compact and call it a luxury car,
You market a night light and call it  an "Evening Star"
When it comes to quality you keeping lowering the bar
There's no lie too far-fetched for you not to shout it.
It's all about sound bytes, mini bites, Little blights
of deceit calculated to cheat us. Our treats and delights
Are being wrested from us by advertising parasites.
What's sad is that we're not even getting angry about it.

"Fun Size!'  Just call it "Getting Less for More Size,"
A dumbing down of merchandise in the guise
Of doing it for our own good or whatever other lies
Dishonest sacks of shit like you shovel our way.
Deluding the very public that you've come to despise
You've become the architect of Honest Value's demise.
It's time for us to wise up and refuse to patronize
Those who strive to deceive with the words that they say.

Tonto Rides off into the Sunset

Strapped into his wheelchair, Tonto's head nods
As though it takes too much effort to raise it.
Stubbornly he rebuffs the nurse's attempts to feed him,
His jaws clenched, his boney fingers drumming the tinnitus
Of the William Tell Overture. Over and over and over.
The music gallops through his mind, iron hooves of rhythm
That never seem to cease, that won't ever give him peace.
He suffers from dementia pugilistica.
He's as punch drunk as any ring-ravaged boxer
From too many pistol butts to the head.

He was always the obliging side-kick,
Ever faithful, willing to take the beat-down,
The whack on the head, or to be tied to a chair
Next to a fuse leading to a keg of dynamite,
Willing to endure pain and to court death
In order to give the Lone Ranger
An opportunity to arrive
Just in the nick of time
To save the day
And make the future bright
For television clichés.

Now, in his few lucid moments,
When he's cognizant enough to observe
The tape on the window screens,
The yellowing of the peeling wallpaper
And to smell the disinfectant that
Almost masks the odor of urine,
He watches his nurse disgustedly scowl at him,
Dump the plate of food she'd been trying to feed him
Into a garbage can and flounce outside
To smoke a cigarette with the good-looking janitor.
.
Tonto wonders bitterly
Why his old friend, Kemosahbee,
Doesn't come around to visit him anymore.