An Angry Poem

Not men, but beasts, all greedy and corrupt,
Within your hearts antipathies erupt,
Exploding at your parties and your feasts,
Not men, not women, but ferocious beasts.

My blood would boil and my rage would rise
At all the animosities and lies,
Politely strangling me and crushing me to death,
Then asking "How are you?" in one breath.

Well, I'm fine, I'm doing really fine,
I love your kindness and your courtesy divine,
I'm still a poet and I don't get paid,
I write of men and women getting laid.

A "friend" once told me of your courtesy,
A woman told him: "Fuck the shit out me!"
And in the morning, with a lying face,
She said: "My God! Did anything take place?"

So stuff your bibles, stuff your manners up your ass,
You worship money and you have no class!
I'm a poet and I'll write the things I see
And I don't care if you publish me.

                                   August 14, 1989
                                --Alexander Shaumyan