The Junkyard Oracle
A distant town from my mother's youth,
A held the parts, my radiator frayed.
Among the scrap, the rust, the grime,
An old man stood, untouched by time.
Dirty Dave, they called him there,
White jumpsuit spotless, beyond compare.
For fifty years he'd ruled this land,
Junkyard king with stories at hand.
His office, a cluttered shrine to the past,
Memories gathered, shadows cast.
He knew my name, my blood, my kin,
The tales of my uncles, their youthful sins.
“Sit down,” he said, his voice a thread,
Weaving truths from lives long dead.
He spoke of men and what they’d lost,
An inheritance stolen, a grievous cost.
Fairy tales, he claimed, once belonged to boys,
Lessons wrapped in ancient ploys.
Cinderella’s stepmother, cruel and shrewd,
A map for men, misunderstood.
Snow White’s trials, Rapunzel’s plight,
Wisdom for sons hidden in plain sight.
But Disney came, with a glittering lie,
To sell the dreams that men should buy.
His words turned sharp, a blade of fire,
Cutting through history, lifting the mire.
“The oligarchs,” he growled, “seek to divide,
To drain this land, to hollow its pride.”
A war of generations, he laid bare,
The elders’ greed, a devil’s snare.
Wealth moved offshore, a cunning plan,
Globalism’s chokehold on the common man.
For five long hours, I stood, enthralled,
As truths and warnings from his lips were called.
He would not take my cash that day,
Until his final word had had its say.
I never saw him again, but still,
His voice echoes, a haunting thrill.
Dirty Dave, the junkyard sage,
Left me richer than my truck that age.
Through many decades memories passed,
His lessons endure, unbroken, steadfast.
In a world of chaos, his words ignite,
A beacon burning through the night.
Brunswick
npub1c8…q6lkc
2024-11-09 01:51:20
Author Public Key
npub1c856kwjk524kef97hazw5e9jlkjq4333r6yxh2rtgefpd894ddpsmq6lkcPublished at
2024-11-09 01:51:20Event JSON
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"content": "The Junkyard Oracle\n\nA distant town from my mother's youth, \nA held the parts, my radiator frayed.\nAmong the scrap, the rust, the grime,\nAn old man stood, untouched by time.\n\nDirty Dave, they called him there,\nWhite jumpsuit spotless, beyond compare.\nFor fifty years he'd ruled this land,\nJunkyard king with stories at hand.\n\nHis office, a cluttered shrine to the past,\nMemories gathered, shadows cast.\nHe knew my name, my blood, my kin,\nThe tales of my uncles, their youthful sins.\n\n“Sit down,” he said, his voice a thread,\nWeaving truths from lives long dead.\nHe spoke of men and what they’d lost,\nAn inheritance stolen, a grievous cost.\n\nFairy tales, he claimed, once belonged to boys,\nLessons wrapped in ancient ploys.\nCinderella’s stepmother, cruel and shrewd,\nA map for men, misunderstood.\n\nSnow White’s trials, Rapunzel’s plight,\nWisdom for sons hidden in plain sight.\nBut Disney came, with a glittering lie,\nTo sell the dreams that men should buy.\n\nHis words turned sharp, a blade of fire,\nCutting through history, lifting the mire.\n“The oligarchs,” he growled, “seek to divide,\nTo drain this land, to hollow its pride.”\n\nA war of generations, he laid bare,\nThe elders’ greed, a devil’s snare.\nWealth moved offshore, a cunning plan,\nGlobalism’s chokehold on the common man.\n\nFor five long hours, I stood, enthralled,\nAs truths and warnings from his lips were called.\nHe would not take my cash that day,\nUntil his final word had had its say.\n\nI never saw him again, but still,\nHis voice echoes, a haunting thrill.\nDirty Dave, the junkyard sage,\nLeft me richer than my truck that age.\n\nThrough many decades memories passed,\nHis lessons endure, unbroken, steadfast.\nIn a world of chaos, his words ignite,\nA beacon burning through the night.\n\n",
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}