Roadmaps for the Soul

In reviewing my trove (not necessarily all treasure) of writings, I found this one, which is not nearly one of my favorites. It's called "Roadmaps for the Soul." I wrote it over a period of more than a year, regularly excising some part and splicing in a new thing I'd written as scrap. Finally, I felt somewhat satisfied, with this mangled, hopefully-caustic, and sadly pessimistic poem, whose inspiration came from listening to the rough edges of 60s rock and roll and the tall tales of anarchy in late 70s punk.

I'm on the front porch
Brandishing a blowtorch
So don't come near me
If you don't want to get scorched

I said, watch out, you
Be careful what you do
You can try hard
But get marred
And more likely get scarred
If you carry a gun
You’ll get put in a police car
So be on the lookout
And don’t do cookouts
Oh, they’ll get you even if you just pull a book out
‘Cause that’s what being a crook’s about

Then up the pavement
I see door-to-door salesmen
If only my dog
Went after them like the mailman

I said, don’t give in
Keep on living
You got cursed
But you come through the worst
So don’t die of thirst
And before you get revenge
There’s more you got to do first
Jump through the loopholes
When you get your soup cold
And as always, make everything you do bold
‘Cause opinions change almost every new poll

I need to get the president
Out of the basement
Maybe he can talk to them
And get them to make sense

I said, truth don’t change
People just get strange
You got new clothes
And a new nose
Even a set of brand-new toes
But your mind’s still ablaze
What you didn’t get was a fire hose
So bluff with scorn
At all the newborns
Say all the wasted words that prove to warn
That if you want to make it, you got to toot your own horn

Oh, what are they selling?
Well, they ain’t telling
I calmly say I’m not buying
But still they keep on yelling