Immaterial Material Goods
It wouldn't start. It would not pass
Inspection as a goer.
I thought it was a supergrass,
But no. I shot my mower.
I had my TV dinner made,
Prepared my meal to shove in.
I thought it didn't make the grade.
Bang bang. I shot my oven.
I visited my frigidaire.
'Is there some food there, please sir?'
It offered me a rigid stare –
So I shot it in the freezer.
I kept it in the back-room. Why?
It sucked, was out of kilter.
Nature abhors a vacuum. I
Have shot it through its filter.
Take TV's 'international news':
The facts don't seem to figure.
Its lies gave me the highway blues.
My finger itched the trigger.
Machines can drive a man insane,
But I've got them on the run –
So tell me, make me right as rain:
How will I shoot my gun?
