I’m the man behind the man
behind the man
and I have got my hands
in everybody’s pockets.
I know who’s been sticking his plug
in Marylin Monroe’s socket.
I have files on everyone who counts,
yet they would amount to nothing,
if I did not have the will to use them.
They call me a cruel sonofabitch
just to aggravate me,
but my strength is truth.
I have the proof
of every kind of infidelity
and that makes me the one free man
in a country of prisoners
off lust, greed, hatred, need
greater than the fear of reprisal,
all the recognized sins
and all those unrecognizable,
except to me and God. Maybe God.
Sometimes my whole body aches
and I lie down on the floor,
just staring at the ceiling,
until I am feeling in control again,
my old confidence surging back
through me like electricity
and I get up, Frankenstein,
revived by the weakness of others
and as unstoppable as a handful of pills
that could kill you on a night like this,
like the night when Marylin kissed it all goodbye.
They all wanted me
to take the A train to anonymity,
those who would seduce their own mothers,
after an audience with the Pope.
The Holy Joke I call him.
I’d like to get a tape, or two,
of that crew in Rome.
A two-way mirror
somewhere in the Vatican, the camera rolling,
while some Cardinal is jerking off
over a silver bowl.
But I digress.
Now Lyndon Johnson and a negress,
that is delicious,
something best served on a platter.
Save until after the elections
when it really matters.
I’m so scattered lately.
I feel like shattering all my Waterford crystal.
Ask me anything you want, but don’t touch me.
I keep my pistol loaded.
Don’t say I told you. Do.
I want the lowdown sonsofbitches
who betray me to know
I’m on to them like a fly on shit.
I will not rest,
Until spit in their mouths
and piss on their faces. The fools.
J. Edgar Hoover runs this country.
J. Edgar Hoover rules.