(Grand Theft World Remix)
By Yona Aniwodi and Glory Jones
revised April 17, 2022
-for Commander -X-
Wake behind the wheel, no breakfast meal
Time card’s punched, and then skipped lunch
The customers served, right from the curb
No stranger to this land, the struggle’s at hand
Local yokel, now work your job,
Then dumpster dive for a corncob
Local yokel, your secret’s kept from all,
Change uniform in a bathroom stall
Clock out, head out, and drive away.
Go ride, and hide, and sleep til day.
Door dash, and shine for cash, busboy dishwasher.
Homeless, Phoneless, but taxes withheld.
Local yokel, full time each week,
With fresh garbage can feasts
Local yokel, so invisible to all,
Collect cigarette butts from the shopping mall
Ignored, cardboard, and walk away.
So curse, and treat worse, fully deprecate.
The least are just beasts to throw away.
No hearse to reimburse, only poverty fate.
Local Yokel, so completely forgot,
Squatting overnight in a vacant lot.
Local yokel, American social mobility,
Always there upon four tires
Cleared lawn, tent gone, cops hauled it away.
Pots n pans, pictures, quickly evacuate.
Weekdays, weekends, it’s all just a blur.
Time stamp, tramp camp, somehow endure,
Local yokel, enriched U.S. economy,
But rent’s forever out of reach
Local Yokel, the unhoused reality,
Hard knock school can teach.
The Car broke down, left it downtown
Found on the ground, asleep by the mound
It’s time to dance, wipe leaves off your pants
Back to the drive thru, smiling to serve you
Hey Orlando, don’t you scare away your tourists.
Clench that money so tightly in your fists.
Hey Orlando, bright line train now exists,
Feeding ordnance you just can’t resist.
Local yokel, grieving dads and moms,
One last meal with Food-not-Bombs.
Local yokel, rush hour bus running late,
No more suffering, finally Caught a break! -the—end—