Gut the Government

A Poem by Matt Presti

Gut the government. Hang it in thy tree and cleave it down the middle—to bleed. All its festering guts (bureaucracy) spill out in the street. Storm and drain away by rain and cloud and heat.

Hang its horns on fiery sun—the bloody beast for what it’s done. Thou subvertest the common good and make right sense - a follywood.

Tell ye the story of the quartered beast. Ye children—grandchildren of this feat. Teach them of thy ways and means, to run through briars of lesser plebes—who would use government as a weaponized leech, to gorge and upon the people's blood, feast.

Small things function better than monstrosities—which are destined to topple into dust—these monopolies, being higher and above—even the spires of their rooftops and love.

Dare mediocrity to be so vain as to crown itself king? Surely all life shall beg the Universe—to fill this lifeless void with something heaven made. Be it tangible and real, as a sun—refusing to fade!

For nothing is more wretched, more decrepit, more odious than hubris. By God! Cut it down! Burn it out! Poison thee! Rather not to let it convince—that it can coexist with civilized beings, in neither towns nor cities fair. Hear, hear!

Government is only as necessary as men are neither good nor wise. When cometh our time of wisdom, as Shelley hath cried, “government will of itself decay.” For all truth outlives all lies. A mighty evil it is—whether necessary or not, is prone to rot!

Every so often, gut it, cut it. And should it grow back as men fall asleep—for failure to keep a watchful gaze, set it ablaze. That darkened maze of a state too deep.

The unbound hand we raise.

The toast of a broken glass.

Patriots of a nation’s praise.

Ye saved the best for last. 🕊