Two Wings, Same Vulture by Jeff Callaway

Two Wings, Same Vulture 

by Jeff Callaway

Texas Outlaw Poet

They called it the  

Big.  

Beautiful.  

Bill.  

but it’s just  

one big beautiful kill  

job—  

on the working class,  

on the sick,  

on the poor,  

on the folks who can’t take it  

any… more.  

They dressed it up  

in stars and stripes,  

but underneath?  

It bleeds.  

It bites.  

It’s a billionaire feast  

on a minimum wage plate,  

and they call that “freedom”  

while they legislate hate.  

They gutted Medicare  

like it owed them money,  

sliced up Medicaid  

like it was some joke, some dummy.  

"Personal responsibility," they say  

from their ivory perch—  

while grandma’s picking between  

her meds and church.  

They cut food stamps  

and called it growth,  

like kids don’t eat  

when the market’s broke.  

Then handed Wall Street  

a trillion-dollar treat—  

while we check couch cushions  

just to make ends meet.  

This ain't no free market.  

This is rigged roulette.  

Where the ball always drops  

in the same damn net.  

And while we scream in pain,  

while we beg and shout—  

they toast champagne,  

because that’s what it’s about.  

This isn’t politics. This is plunder.  

And both sides  

keep pulling us under.  

You think it’s just the red team?  

Naw, man.  

Biden had his chance—  

and he danced for the banks,  

sold an “infrastructure dream”  

that was smoke and thanks.  

A concrete mirage,  

a Wall Street plan,  

not roads for the people—  

just cash in hand.  

Bridges to nowhere,  

contracts for friends,  

another fake promise  

that never ends.  

They sold it as hope,  

but it came out lies,  

another fat feast  

while the worker dies.  

So don’t you dare tell me  

this is about Right vs Left—  

This is Rich vs You.  

And you’re getting left.  

They play good cop, bad cop  

on the nightly news,  

but when the cameras cut—  

they share the booze.  

They cash the checks,  

they kiss the rings,  

and laugh while we argue  

over puppet strings.  

Except…  

Rand Paul said no.  

Thomas Massie stood tall.  

While the rest took money,  

they said:  

“Not at all.”  

Only a few refused to sell  

their soul  

for gold.  

Only a few  

didn’t fold.  

And AOC said no.  

Ilhan Omar stayed true.  

Two sparks in the ashes  

that still cut through.  

While the party bowed down,  

they called out the con,  

stood with the people  

when the rest moved on.  

That should tell you  

everything  

you need to know.  

There’s no cavalry coming.  

No messiah in red.  

No savior in blue.  

There’s just  

us…  

and what we’re willing to do.  

They are not two parties,  

just two crooked things,  

two rusted claws,  

two poisoned wings.  

One bird of prey  

with a vulture’s face,  

circling above  

while it strips our place.  

It flies with talons,  

it hunts with lies,  

while we fight each other  

and close our eyes.  

That word is:  

Rigged.  

Rigged so we fight  

over crumbs and crumbs,  

while the kings eat steak  

and beat their drums—  

telling us  

we're enemies  

for voting wrong,  

when really,  

we’ve been lied to  

all along.  

So I’m done playing games.  

I’m done choosing sides.  

Because both wear masks  

and both tell lies.  

If you’re still waving flags  

like they’ll save your skin,  

just know:  

The house always wins.  

Wake up.  

Speak loud.  

Stand tall.  

Don’t fall.  

Because silence  

is the richest weapon of all.  

Two wings. Same vulture.  

America, open your eyes…  

before we become bones picked clean  

beneath its skies.  

~ Jeff Callaway

Texas Outlaw Poet

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