THEY DON'T LIKE THEIR NAME OR THEIR JOBS

He walked into those painful cold tiles of his kitchen
Last night. There was one dim light above the stove.
He watched the little string of steam clouding, yawning,
Dribbling upward from the big black pot and tickling
The air around him. Inside boiled rainbows. The
Steam, produced by a gridlock of colors formed a TV
Antenna. His team feared blue suits and did not
Understand the white color's guilt when it was far
Too fresh to have ever spoiled. The dribble his
Seen tangled hill among every eye--for it is
Generation (X) where the majority lie. The softness
In their inner charity has been caged, because when
The colors speak they hear only rage. The college
Banjo beats. The kids on their backs working to
Live in a place they call home--even as they
Felt the HEARTLAND moan. These are the core
Of a fine dribble of steam--Given a hand-him-down
Task be will they give something in return? (Oh yes)
Brothers, their fire is bigger, it will burn!