Vacuum Cleaver

 The Natural order of Money -- Jordan Peterson

Suck it up, the dirt and fucks, people vat 

cum for breadcrumbs, as Krum Victors 

on the witches broom, vacuum must rat; 

making it clean again, that dirty rugmat. 

As butchers hurl their cleavers, clitoris 

are becoming moist, critically hit Vitores 

churning into outrage, lost translation scat! 

When nothing is become, Nihil, must give; 

grieve on the cleave, of Stevens Universal. 

Who got more stoned, Gomer vs Argive, 

as the black horses rued the world -- hive 

inside my mind, you there always the reversal 

of Fiat trance late for work, but too soon gall! 

As familiar spirits there accused in court Live. 

To succubus or not to succubus, that's the Zion; 

as the Lion oakmonted on the Market, lazy asses 

oscilated on their tatami: "Let someone else cry on 

the rivers of Deep Purple!" Leaving the plaid on 

Scott free, no price is so redeemed to be its own masses! 

Plead guilty on the carcasses, the catwalk had caches 

of mana, what nobody burried alive nor killed on trial!! 

Bully me some buggies, as the bogeyman boogied in Ham; 

the Burg had to urg on the orkish cave-rave, save the Tram. 

"Oh no, the germans are coming!" The tomatoes rolled spam; 

enroll in the next Mayhem University, to ree-duplate. The scam 

of selling the Rainbow bridge of Asgard for a smudgeon ram... 

That Dodge Viper, was lodged into the Whomping Willow - Wham! 

The Gangbang still rang true on motherboard, awareness jammed. 

The Forever Knights high fived Ben Ten and Ned Stark; smelting 

a new Iron Man suit, what built an axe playing Feux Follets Liszt! 

The Vacuum imploded on itself, creating Tohuvabohu's New-Altings. 

Stalin dialed in, seventeen Spring moments, what made farthing 

less of a sence, than burning insence to commemorate the jist 

of it. The nitty gritty DeWitt had to paint it black, numbers enlisted 

greenrooms-miles, what didn't fare well, to parcel Rome for nothing. 

I wanted to write a poem, but it didn't leave my conscience clean. 

Aggrieved, of the aggrevated assault, of my thoughts contempt; 

I confessed to the next genius loci, to hearthe my heart and steam. 

The Punk soul, found solace in Soli Deo Gracia, Silencio te Deum! 

The void was a better friend, than the booth, I tried to nurture, exempt 

from reason reality. Despaired in my pair of three-legged Kampf;  

the camphor had some Amber Bushes to whack, I heard it Self-Esteem.