Sun. Mar 3rd, 2024

Written by R.S. Janes

Youve got to have beauty,
if youve got talent,
thats a plus.
If youve got neither
you might as well
get back on the bus
and head on home to
Palookaville or
Altoona or
Pittsburgh, P. A.
Without those dollar signs in your eyeballs,
your face has nothing to say.

Madame Profit runs the brothel here
the phony handshake,
the elbow in the ribs,
the lurid neon leer.
The Corn God of the Midwest
may lurk near your brassiere
but youre just another quick chrome job
to a monster in high gear here.

Flash a tight smile,
fix your nose,
imitate sincere,
youre riding on the gravy train
of unholy fake-boobed cheer.
The ticket price may overwhelm you,
but have no fear,
we can enema you with overpriced celebrity
and parade you like a prize steer.

Modern Madonnas meet Hollywood anacondas
bear your plastic Jesus now, dear.
Ornamental angels,
high on the ramparts of Babylon,
suddenly decide
its a leap year.
Lift up your skirt, turn around,
and look in a mirror,
heres all that youve become
since you first came here.
2001 – 2009
R. S. Janes
All Rights Reserved

<img alt="Image courtesy of" src="" title="Fruit" width="150" height="97"
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