Soup Can Blues (poem)

By W.D. Ehrhart

Our president says the left-wing mob
are throwing soup cans at our cops
instead of bricks. Easier to throw,
and if you're caught, you can always
say you're only trying to feed the kids.

It's true that you can get a better grip
on Campbell's Cream of Mushroom
or Progresso Italian Style Wedding
than you're going to get on a brick,
and a can's more aerodynamic, too.

But what's all this about soup?
What's the matter with baked beans,
canned peaches, pineapple chunks,
Chef Boyardee Spaghetti O's?
Surely hungry kids'll eat that stuff.

Or even tuna fish? Those little cans,
like flat stones or silver dollars, man,
you'd get some wicked speed with those,
like throwing fastballs at a batter's head.
Cruising the aisles of a looted grocery

store, the possibilities are endless:
Armour Star, Amy's Organic, Wild Planet.
That's the trouble with our president:
he can't tell the truth to save his ass,
and still has no imagination.