Same Old Sergeant

It's the same old sergeant in the same old town—

the same old shouts and commands.

His power continues to rise;

it just expands and expands.

He barks at the privates— that's you and me.

He orders us to stay in line:

“Just do as I say,” he says,

“and everything will turn out fine.”

The commander, the king—

whatever you want to call him—

I've had my fill;

I've had it to the brim.

He's the same old sergeant in the same old town,

except he's getting worse and worse.

How I wish, and how I pray,

we could get rid of this curse.

 

 

The Cowboys

I would speak to the cowboys—

for the cowboys I will call them.

These are those who value war,

who think that it's a gem.

Cowboys pull their guns and fire;

they aim to shoot and kill.

And if anyone asks them why,

they say it's just their will.

We live in a world of cowboys.

We live in a world of war.

They love to see the enemy die.

They love to see blood and gore.

 

The Day of Thunder

Did we come close to World War III?

That's what I wonder.

More missiles, and tanks, and fighter jets—

in the Day of Thunder.

What if the nations of Europe joined in?

What if they joined the war?

What if Iran then counterattacked them—

wouldn't that mean the world would be less peaceful

than it had been before?

Tonight—tonight, when I go to bed,

I shall surely whisper a prayer.

And I'll give a sigh of relief

that we've escaped this scare.

In America 

In America, they don't elect people; they elect parties and factions. They don't elect character and integrity; they elect pledges and promises. Win their votes with words, not with silly good deeds. In America, they play a game, taking it so seriously it soon is a game no more. They divide into two teams and start yelling and screaming at each other -- and the one spewing the most hatred and profanity wins. In America, they fight over patriotism, both sides professing to be more patriotic than the other. But they see the other side as anything but patriotic; one side sees the other as commies and socialists, and the other side sees them as Nazis and fascists. In America, both sides swear they are truthful and honest, while the other side is a pack of liars. In America, they even fight over who is the Christian. And do they consider their opponents Christians? No, the other side is nothing but a cult of devils and demons. The two sides point at each other, crying, "Evil, evil." In America, the one side treats the other as a pariah, and the other side treats them as a pariah. In America, there are no adult voters; they're all a bunch of children. In America, they tell you we need to return to the good ol' days. And maybe that's the one thing they get right. Supposing there was once a day when we didn't fight like this, then, yes, it would be great to return to the good ol' days.

(Blogs)

 

I'm No Longer a Poet

I'm no longer a poet—I'm a politician,

for a man is what he does.

I no longer write poetry all day;

that's just a thing that was.

Now I'm a politician—I am.

I scurry around seeking votes;

I spend all my money getting elected—

it's sad there are so many bank notes.

A politician I am, a politician,

and the poet has faded to the back.

The poet in me has been silenced;
he's hanging on the rack.