Spin

By: Antwan Crump

 

As I make a sharp turn,

on the sleek roads,

going umpteen miles an hour,

I have to wonder,

as the car begins to make its’ final ascent,

in a tumbling, twirling, fashion –

does anyone really care?

 

Does anyone really care

about the devil in an orange headdress,

making false accusations against no one,

in the hopes that we overlook his apparent duress,

under the James Bond villain upon yonder –

flipping his words around,

with the swift succinctness of my car tires,

while they revolve around the bubble that is my thoughts?

 

Does anyone really care,

about the good time blonde,

with the fake tata’s,

that seems to want little more-

than to appear more important than she is,

gargling down her final shot of giggle juice,

just before she prepares to once more

go on air, and share the news?

 

Does anyone really care

about the children in Ethiopia,

who look disgustingly similar to the ones on those,

“donate your spare change please”, commercials –

where the middle-aged white man stands

cockily confident beside them,

in his, “I’m better than you”, sweater-vest?

 

As if he had to say it twice.

 

Oh these tires,

how beautifully they’ve spun on the roads,

since I’ve pulled them off the lot –

attached to a body of work that I could barely afford,

in the hopes of appealing to that orange-wigged devil,

that he may permit me,

to love the blonde,

and have her love me back.

 

Then, I would have all the change,

to donate to those poor children,

in, “Who-gives-a-stan”,

that they may emigrate to the land of poor credit,

and moral bankruptcy.

 

Help us to dominate,

those prepubescent scoundrels

over there in Ethiopia.

 

Wait. Did I mix the kids up?

 

Who cares!

It’s all the land of the free,

the home of the brave brain surgeon

whose student loans had restrained him,

for a few extra years in the cul-de-sac,

filled with people he now detests.

 

Yes! Yes! Yes!

 

Spin you damned tires.

Spin!

 

Until the inevitable crash,

of the car that I can barely afford,

in the country that steals from the poor,

and gives to itself –

that the big boobed blonde,

may flaunt her plumper parts,

to the middle-aged white man in Ethiopia,

whose credit score must be just enough,

that the orange devil saw fit,

to leave him there.

 

Spin!

 

Until the crash.

 

That’s what I paid for.