Whose floods these were I think I know,
I heard his jet above the flow.
He did not hear me crying here
for crumb of hope or place to go.
The real help he sent away
to join a trumped up foreign fray.
Not one to plug the bursting lake,
Instead he plans a pork buffet.
Storms aren't things that leaders make
But "Horse Show" Brown was his mistake.
His jet has passed, the waters seep.
Bones in razed houses recall him for my sake.
The waters rising, dark and deep
disturb him not nor his veep.
To him, my death is only sleep.
To him, my death is only sleep.
3 comments:
Hey, I'm an unhappily unemployed struggling artist -- I've got time for stuff like this. Don't you have a job?
;)
observed the [untampered] time of posting, did you?
That took very little time. Its one of those tricks I can do. There are cattle cars and sandlots and suburbs and battlefields and laboratories full of words, milling about for a turn getting through the funnel of my schedule.
I am not happy with it by the way but it was for an 8pm deadline today that I forgot about.
Great to see a blog that deals with world issues. We, the peasants, have to rattle the can, take back our world from the madmen who currently run the show.
Why doesn't George get in the cupboard and let the skeleton run things?
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