Busted and Disgusted, and Banks can’t be Trusted.

Loan sharks with a logo promising prosperity like charity

for only them to give;

Depend on me and I’ll set you free -

covered by
an ever-increasing service fee.

Now in debt - till death do we part;

and there goes the house as they claim rights

to their wrongs; borrowing to pay the borrowed

hoping for better tomorrow.

But the papers say it ain’t so; things about to blow.


So I go all-in on a shovel.., Right?

I buy a shovel and max the account, what do I care; this is not

an ordinary shovel; it's a hell-of-a-shovel - designed specifically for a

specific purpose. A shovel that can dig me in so deep a hole I can escape

all things in the world I hate - like gridlocked commercial existentialism -

and people who say shit like that.

I take this special shovel up an average hill that becomes a desperate

mountain, passing others along the way. Climbing while clinging; the

shovel makes the effort an increasing burden; suffering to escape suffering

sounds good.

I become so weighted down I stop, abandoned by choice, and fall short;

I start to dig at a spot where others also are digging. My shovel digs faster

and deeper than the others in search of the same haven, trying to fill a

hole while falling in one. The deeper I dig the fewer I find to be so deep

but know they're there hidden in plain sight - uptown, downtown, skid


I passed others that were on their way up out of the hole, they tried to

speak and inform me - alerting me of things to come; but I was too busy

digging to listen. And why would I - the failures, the weak of will..., the

clean and sober - ain't got shit to say to me.

Finally I dug myself in so deep that I was sure I would never be able to get

out. That was fine by me, I was away from everything I hated; like

synthesized syndicated synchronicity - the orthodox interpretation of

course - and people who say shit like that.

Things went fine for awhile, then the signal dropped and I found myself

wishing I had brought a book. The warmth provided by isolation soon

gave way to the cool of seclusion. The security blanket covering piece

of mind opened to chills of boredom. As solar-powered ignorance set into

the shadows of dreary insight I found myself spending the lonely hours

building a bed of justification to rest upon.

This good feeling lasted about as long as the satisfaction of a

previous purchase. The bed grew too hard, and with no customer service

facade.., I then built myself a pity pot hoping for relief, this too soon grew

unbearable. I started to lose it, tried to remember all the things in the world

I hated and the fools that didn't; like networked narcissistic inuendo - but

not like you'd think - and the people who say shit like that.., finding myself

wishing I was back with them.

Lonelier hours passed, justification, pity, everything exhausted.

Feeling not so much privileged as imprisoned I came to the realization that

the thing I hated the most was there in the hole with me.

I looked over to the shovel; I hate that fucking shovel, I thought.

I wouldn't even be here if not for that stupid shovel. So I broke the shovel

into splinters and used the blade to dig it's own grave.

Time has passed since the burial. Discontent still fills the air.

There's only one thing left in this hole to hate; but nothing left to blame.


© 1996, 2013 Steve McNuttin - Vice or Verse