High Life Man
by Nevada Kerr

The Bog-Trotter Mob and Dunghill Bob
Complain and curse about a noble cause
They still have the best of the bad land jobs
Only well-born lords own the water to sob

All their drink money went down with the rains
Such sturdy beggars must drag heavy chains
Their good wives took car rides that left fatal stains
Virtue and temperance don't always take brains

Worn-out working men guard their working clans
Manly model martyrs must grow on salted lands
High Life Man is gonna take their hands
Fetch and stretch their breeding glands

He won't need admission, not with his stockpiles
Each pragmatic sanction baits his patron's smiles
Fetid favorite shepherd with a precious petting fetish
High Life Man keeps all your plans in his coded files

A snack happy wigger
Whose rent-rolls grow bigger and bigger
He makes the gold diggers snigger
Your future house and farm possessor
Lays his limber fingers on your rigor

High life money-grubber marks down your broken parts
Takes his bread from the bottom of your broken heart
He offers no song, no supper, no second final chance
Still you strike bitter bargains with the High Life Man

Bumpkin snobs and men of straw
Hope against hope in the eyes of the law
Dirty work, duty, and the brute force of war
Keep their hands bloody and raw

Written by Nevada Kerr
2nd September 2001.
Edited 26th March 2002.