Brunswick on Nostr: The Junkyard Oracle A distant town from my mother's youth, A held the parts, my ...
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.
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.