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lines
from its southern map.
Leaders
pining for more signing,
so no
one takes the rap.
O, Syria! So queeria!
What is it you're doin’?
We stirred the pot. (We broke a lot!)
Still, you
keep on stewin’.
We stirred the pot. (We broke a lot!)
“WE’ll BUILD THE WALL!” Please
make it tall;
Babel ain't far from here.
And with two sides, must we abide
that
far is always near?
“KEEPING KIDS SAFE—EVERY LAST WAIF!”
Caged,
with colour TV.
“It’s
done for love, my turtle-dove;
it’s not for you and me.”
Bombing
mud huts. We’re in a rut.
We’ve
seen this show before.
Popcorn’s
gone stale. Babies will wail!
While
ushers lock the doors.
Until
real war. Then
who’ll keep score,
with the room full of trumps.
Oh,
just say, “Cheezze!”He won’t
say, “Pleezze!”
It’s
time to take our lumps.
For
when they hold trump, you’re
the chump;
so play
your cards right, pal.
War does come near--it is to fear.
We’ve
kittens to corral!
Nuclear
winter ain’t
no splinter,
a
boo-boo we can suck.
It’ll
be pay back, going
way back,
when
love became a fuck.
Of our sages and their cages:
They’re
not quite chalk and cheese…
“We aren’t the same! By any name!
And in
the dark we’ll please.”
We read NeWsDAy! Fake
news our way!
(What’s
up can just be down.)
We’ll
just scroll ‘round, until what’s
found,
best
suits our inner clown.
Reality’s fidelity, of late, it’s up for sale.
Reality’s fidelity, of late, it’s up for sale.
It’s a new
trend. But to what end,
if truth trots off to jail?
if truth trots off to jail?
That NO FLY ZONE gives me a bone;
jet
fumes make me horny.
If
there’s oil there, what should we care?
(Crowns
are far too thorny.)
"General!
Sir Venerable!
What bombs
you’ve dropped today!
But don’t
you know, that eastern glow,
comes around here to stay?"
"Common, don't be such mopes!"
“Hey! A
new flow!” “Let’s see the glow!”
TURISTAS ON THE ROPES!
tinkling
the ivories ‘way.
Pianos sound, while trunks are
bound—
though some are meant to stay.
though some are meant to stay.
Factories on seas, blood to our knees.
Moby Dick’s one
great book!
But
of its star—he’s in that jar.
(It’s
best just not to look.)
On land
whales leap, while lions swim deep.
It’s
in the genes they sneeze.
“Just
flip that switch!” (We’ve Igor’s itch.)
Watch
hell begin to freeze.
Malquidora! Don’t bora
me, while I sit and stew
Malquidora! Don’t bora
me, while I sit and stew
on
what was said by one long dead:
“For
all means not for few.”
Migrants apprise, then advertise:
Look What We Do Right Now!
Nannies, they please; farm workers squeeze
dregs from
the golden cow.
We shop
on-line. So where’s the crime?
The world’s
our oyster bed.
We’ll
grab the pearls; good boys and girls
don’t
tell what’s left unsaid.
Hail
“El Duce”, or just “Gucci”.
If the
shoe fits, wear it.
When we
stroll there (really
nowhere),
we walk
barefoot in shit.*
Heads
still debate? We’ll masterbate—
their seed on stony ground.
So what’s
the diff? We’re off the cliff.
Who’s
buying the last round?
Now that EU, like some emu
is
penned, with pages full.
Still they'll natter while they splatter,
with
ripcords meant to pull.
“What’s
this treaty? Be a sweetie,
fetch
me my cooler shawl.
Where’s
it written? Who’s emittin’?
All
I see here is scrawl.”
That troubling call? A mountain’s bawl?
Or horn from Eden’s round?
What was that death that caught our breath?
What made us look around?
Those
knights who fought for Camelot,
to
bring his golden rule,
have
since forgot, what once was taught
by
lone King Arthur’s fool.
Thus
ages deep, in crypts we keep;
we mark
it by each soul,
that so
besot with Camelot,
they’d paid King
Arthur’s toll.
One bad
penny, named Gin Jenny.
She had
two sides, ya know!
One to
keep her; one to reap her,
one for
the hangman’s row.
“Cat out of bag! You’re on the rag?
Biology just sucks!”
“But you’re a sperm hag, man in drag.”
(You’re an odd pair of ducks.)
Let’s plant some flags or trees.
“But
it’s done! Another dry run?
We'll finish
on our knees!”
But in the night, when coral’s white,
beneath a gentling
moon.
Not by the day, not in that way,
so plain upon the noon.
Are
we held up, like some last sup?
(We’ve
drunk the soured wine.)
Do we
give 'The Speech'? Start to preach?
And do
we have the time?
Leave
it alone? Worry a bone?
Take just what by the horns?
And when
we leave, will we deceive
all
those there left to mourn?
………….
When
all was new, when Sky sat blue,
as
bright Clouds climbed Her stair,
wild
Ocean told such stories bold
of
fiends who walked in air!
“By
such contrails! In winds, they’d sail!
Like
pale gods through the sky.
Such thoughts
they shaped, their reason aped:
‘To do this once, and die!’”
And Land
did roar, her laughter soared,
rough-formed by rock and stone.
Our
ears did ache, but in her quake
she
gave us cause to moan.
Her rumbling
stopped, her temper dropped,
then mighty
Land did sing
a
song that longed for Time to bend,
that
Heaven’s bells may ring.
But
Waves and Airs made plain their cares
as they
drew round our Land:
“Such times
are naught and best forgot,
like
footprints in the sand.”
Above
us waned the falling moon;
stars
winked their wanton ways.
Through
dawns that came too swift to name,
we
laughed and called them Days.
Then Land did breath. New mountains teethed,
and
Waters made their peace.
And
Winds did dance in some romance,
beguiled
by some new lease.
Clouds’
bellies grew to blossom dew
across
the Land and Sea.
Such changes seen--so sudden seem--
more
for the likes of Flea.
And Sky
did smile above our Isles
and over
Water’s blue.
She
told us all about the Fall,
though that we always knew.
Soon Land
grew green and Sea was seen
clothed
in a lusty blue.
Clouds
played with Winds and all but sinned!
(With
touch soon came the dew!)
And
then some trees and honey bees!
caressed
our eyrie bright.
As did so those, like Red's red rose,
who come
with Morning's light.
Our senses
changed and bodies named,
some
fashioned from a rib.
Once
more aground on Life’s great round
to make
once more our crib.
In
Sky’s great arms, whatever harm
that came our way is gone.
And
from Her hand each grain of sand,
in
time, is steady drawn.
…………..
Cheers,
Jake
*The 1984 'Boot' drawing is from Google Images
which linked to
I’m
not sure who the artist is.
Nice graphic though.
(Spit and polish, soldier!
Spit! And polish.)
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