That's My Boy

This is an older piece I wrote when I was about nineteen and freshly moved from Oliver B.C. (pop. < 5000) to downtown Toronto for school. I was being exposed for the first time to theories of mass media and reading hand-me-down copies of Adbusters from my cousin Paul.

That's My Boy

With your savings plan and farmers tan, you remind me of that guy.

The one with all the money, the one who swats the fly.

Let them eat steak and mushroom caps, stuffed with champagne dreams and heart attacks.

You kill you really do, I'm bloated for all the wrong reasons, and I'm only two.

Where's my T.V. SUV, can I borrow your GPS? It's not that I'm going anywhere, it's just that my life's a mess.

Dear Mercedes, I've got the bends, I can't make the ends meet.

Let me suckle from your tail pipe, your carbon dioxide teat.

Oh give me a home, where the anorexics trip, and the deep fryers never cool.

24/7 at 7/11, my bank card's my only tool.

All for one, and one for one, the numbers are force-fed.

Where every ticket's a winner, and every day 25,000 are dead.

That's my boy.