The crud just keeps comin',
the sea fills with black grease.
Jobs are lost over,
could this all be like sheep?
Staple inches, swaybacks, to throw out or keep,
the leaks keep bubbling with tension and heat.
We float on the surface and cast out our booms,
we study the camera, watch flames blacken blue.
The rules are in place but the smashers keep breaking,
the bogs, like sheep, decline with a flu.
The slick will be absorbed nothing short of years to come,
blackening all, weakening, gunking slum.
Breed Parallels are troubling, the Brit is out,
America takes over, the sheeps' future stout.
If only BP wasn't on our minds,
we'd go back to history, and long be fine.
Do I own a rocking chair? Yes.
You can decide if I'm sitting there. :)