Brunswick on Nostr: A Junkyard Oracle A distant town from my mother's youth, held the parts, my radiator ...
A Junkyard Oracle
A distant town from my mother's youth,
held the parts, my radiator frothed.
Among the scrap, the rust, and greese,
An old man sat, content, at ease.
Dirty Dave, a man of renoun,
White jumpsuit spotless, king of the town.
Fifty years he'd ruled this mud,
a wrinkled glow engulfed his head.
His office, cluttered, enshrined the past,
Shadows gathered, memories cast.
He knew my name, my blood, my kin,
From tales of 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 hours, captivated I stood,
At truths and warnings from lips of wood.
He would not take my cash that day,
Until his final word he did say.
I never saw him again, but still,
His voice echoes, a haunting thrill.
Dirty Dave, the junkyard sage,
Left his visions on this page.
Through many decades memories passed,
His words endure, unbroken, steadfast.
In this world of change, his words ignite,
A beacon endures through tonight.
A distant town from my mother's youth,
held the parts, my radiator frothed.
Among the scrap, the rust, and greese,
An old man sat, content, at ease.
Dirty Dave, a man of renoun,
White jumpsuit spotless, king of the town.
Fifty years he'd ruled this mud,
a wrinkled glow engulfed his head.
His office, cluttered, enshrined the past,
Shadows gathered, memories cast.
He knew my name, my blood, my kin,
From tales of 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 hours, captivated I stood,
At truths and warnings from lips of wood.
He would not take my cash that day,
Until his final word he did say.
I never saw him again, but still,
His voice echoes, a haunting thrill.
Dirty Dave, the junkyard sage,
Left his visions on this page.
Through many decades memories passed,
His words endure, unbroken, steadfast.
In this world of change, his words ignite,
A beacon endures through tonight.