A Letter from Woody

Dear Scott Walker and Kasich

I would hope that both of you would have the opportunity to read this letter from Woody, but Scott, since you have your head up Kasich's asshole, and vise-versa with you there Johnny boy, your head up Scott's asshole, this loop lock will remain unbroken, the ultimate Mobius strip escape, unless there is a loop-hole, which seems to be guaranteed with politicians these days. But this is something you both need to take heed of before you break the “Union”:

It Has Always Been

November 29, 1943

It has always been true that the workers have fought and struggled. It has always been that we was born at birth. Always that we lived and always that we worked. Always I guess that we loved like we do and died just before these same ten thousand deaths. I guess all of us has always fought and always warred against something we didn't like. I guess all of us seen the lights of brotherhood and kinship. Yet not all of us have done our downright best to help the wars being fought by the working folks. No. Some have been the spooched, the spoiled, the pampered and petted ones. Born in idle thoughts and reared in lazy shadows. Growed up puffed up with false words running from a false face of pride. And afraid that half of the words and actions in the neighborhood were somehow hurting that falseface of pride. He cornered off his ownself under the bramble of his own bushes and stuck his veins full of hurts of his own thorns, Refusing to take any part in most things around him. Refusing to take part in the battle on the side of the workers. He calls us revolutionists and revolutionaries just because we want to take our own lives out of his proud hands and to do our own planning and building and thinking and working. Yes. But, no. He fones his guards and his hired deputies up on his fone and they wheel us all into jail. The very jail we built with our own hands. He calls us revolutionaries and prematurely antifascist. He's a yellerbellie and a coward and the truth's spark's not in him. He orders twenty of us killed saying that we broke one of his oldest rotten laws out of his dusty back book. And ten hundred just like this spoiled and petted one, like I say, ten hundred lives just like him are not really worth the dusted cement on one of our blistered honest hands.