In the image of corpses lit red, white and blue (anti-war poem)
Vince | 30.01.2003 07:10
In the image of corpses lit red, white and blue.
“Freedom of Speech, Freedom of Speech”,
and the ribs of a dead ones in the desert to bleach.
Once a year, at the State of Confusion
Bush serves up war for Holy Communion.
Something like this our guide had to tell,
Breath offensive it wreaked of death’s smell.
Shouting “God, God” from upon the Congress high
As the Devil’s own Sabbath train whirled on by
President, preacher, reverend, Dr. Death
What are you high on, could it be crystal meth?
He chooses his text in the book divine
Tenth verse of the Preacher in Chapter Nine.
All in attendance seemed to hold their breath
Lest they lose the least word of dear Dr. Death.
Whatever he preached, he gave you his word,
the meaning was empty for all those who heard.
Famous preachers there have been and be,
But never one unconvincing as he.
As for Saddam’s sins, Bush knows just whose
But sinners are plenty, you selectively choose.
War by tomorrow, a nervous nation he led,
And we feared he was digging a trench for our bed.
Throughout the great hall,
Become a death ball
The call for service world-wide was heard
From the raspy throat of the little man nerd.
Howling to congressional shapes as they pass
Soon will be Arabs breaking like glass
And you know who his real listeners be?
People, who are frightened, just like you and me.
As Bush rides on, the road grows strange,
All the milestones into headstones change.
The wreckage of war, so plain to see,
Is endorsed by the son with an awful glee!
Vince
e-mail:
TheConstitutionrules@hotmail.com
Comments
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beautiful work
30.01.2003 11:42
psycherelic
Anti-war sonnet
31.01.2003 17:38
Let us not silence thy wolves outside
That dark castle’s shadow nor within,
On pretence that we, destruction’s time can bide
And scales of justice for our closest kin
Can be delayed, nay stopped. Thy sword
Itches, not for thy nurse’s comfort
But for blood and to impress thy lord
With the proud necklace of wolve’s teeth and hurt.
Of course, ‘tis the egg that suffers most
When the balded eagle finds it’s prey,
Like many times before, when is the monarch’s host
And the king rules by his iron say:
“We are threatened by a foreign land,
Come with me, follow me, take my hand.”
Nhoj