This is an old poem that I had written a while ago. Re-posting it here.
The other day, to reinstate my belief that the right wing conservatives are a watered down version of fundamentalist scum, I watched the so called ‘No Spin Zone’ fronted by Bill O’Reilly. The name of the show is a first grade oxymoron. The only thing you get on this show, hosted on the FOX network, is right wing propaganda spun to look like facts. We all know which way Rupert Murdoch swings, and his number one minion, Mr. O’Reilly is extremely high on the conservative rhetoric. Any man, who hasn’t lost a child, who has never seen war, who hasn’t sent his kids to war, and who supports a President who tried every trick in the book to avoid active duty and also went AWOL, calling a woman like Cindy Sheehan crazy because she rightly denounced the American occupation of Iraq, has to be a total nutcase. The only thing O’Reilly, Rush Limbaugh, and their kind can do is pick on, and belittle patriotic Americans, who have sacrificed their sons, daughters, husbands, and family for an unjust, unreasonable, and a losing war, because someone had to answer the call of duty.
I also watched Fahrenheit 9/11 after that (for nth time), and I put myself in the shoes of the scores of black men, from Flint, Michigan, enlisted and shipped to Iraq. I have lived in Michigan, and not too far away from Flint, and it was easy for me to relate to the predicament of these brave men - men who were born with the cards stacked against them, and yet play their hand with magnanimity only they are capable of.
This is fictitious diary of sorts, of an enlisted soldier, who is a product of fiction as well. But this is how I’d feel, if I were him. The narration is in the first person.
I have dreams,
I’m only nineteen.
At my age, most kids are thinking either about college, or clothes, or parties, or when, and how to get laid next.
However, I have bigger things to worry about.
I was born black, and I live in the wrong side of town.
At this point in time, I can’t afford college, and I refuse to sell drugs.
I can either work for minimum wage, or listen to the nice neighbourhood recruiter and join the army.
I listen to him.
I get drafted for a short stint in Iraq.
They say we are fighting for ‘our’ freedom, by occupying a country that had never endangered our freedom.
But I’m just a soldier, and I can’t, and I won’t ask questions.
I have dreams,
I’m only nineteen.
And I have seen more blood shed in my first week here, than what I have seen in all the movies, put together.
I feel disturbed, and depressed.
My mind is fragile.
In a herd, I’m full of false bravado.
Alone, I’m quite scared.
I take part in my first close encounter shootout.
I kill for the first time. I shed blood.
I also lose my best friend.
I cry myself to sleep 3 days later.
Death hits closer home,
And I lose the last shred of imaginary invincibility I had on, when I left home.
I’m on the edge of sanity.
I run out of prayers,
And I begin missing my parents, and realize how much I love them, and they do me.
I also fear for them, for they may have to do what every parent dreads.
I might be in the next flag draped pine box.
If it happens, won’t my death be in vain? What will we have gained from it?
And then I wonder about my dreams, and what happened to them,
And I’m still only nineteen.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
I Have Learnt
While I sit here, on these ramparts
A blue wind blows, and I begin to brood
The sounds are subdued
The colors, sober
Life goes on in midst of a feud,
Of mind and heart. Of mind over heart.
I have learnt that much, and it is a start.
It is still only February,
And the door to Spring is not yet ajar.
Will the winter flakes give way to joyous leaves?
Bright, cheery, in all their glory?
The chill beckons the loner,
And he whispers to the wind, his story.
I have learnt,
Through many a finger burnt,
Upset applecarts,and false starts.
It isn't always rosy, or even rosy-hued
Though I sit here alone, forlorn, playing my part,
Life still goes on in midst of the feud.
Of mind and heart. Of mind over heart.
A blue wind blows, and I begin to brood
The sounds are subdued
The colors, sober
Life goes on in midst of a feud,
Of mind and heart. Of mind over heart.
I have learnt that much, and it is a start.
It is still only February,
And the door to Spring is not yet ajar.
Will the winter flakes give way to joyous leaves?
Bright, cheery, in all their glory?
The chill beckons the loner,
And he whispers to the wind, his story.
I have learnt,
Through many a finger burnt,
Upset applecarts,and false starts.
It isn't always rosy, or even rosy-hued
Though I sit here alone, forlorn, playing my part,
Life still goes on in midst of the feud.
Of mind and heart. Of mind over heart.
Afloat in the land of the endless sand
From my beautiful high rise perch in Dubai, I woke up everyday to see Indian menial workers and laborers toil under 50 degree desert sun, to build towers that touched the skies, so people like me could inhabit them, and live in style, while they lived in tiny hutments made out of tin. The sight never failed to depress me.
Bright city lights beckoned the boy from the town
And at the break of dawn
He looked around and saw,
A city of minarets, tall towers, and jungles of concrete
A visual treat
Bustling with men in yellow hats
Worried, sun scarred faces
With kids back home, and a wife.
So they put up with the strife
They toil, and weather the heat.
Lord, this has got them beat.
Soiled, wrinkled hands tell many a story
Many are sorry
Hopes undone, dreams shattered
Battered and tattered.
Look how we exploit their need
Look how they bleed to feed our greed
To a build a better life for our seed
But are they a different breed?
Why then the sweat and the toil?
Why then the blisters and boils?
I am lost
I often question
And there are no answers at hand
For I am afloat in the land of the endless sand
And at the break of dawn
He looked around and saw,
A city of minarets, tall towers, and jungles of concrete
A visual treat
Bustling with men in yellow hats
Worried, sun scarred faces
With kids back home, and a wife.
So they put up with the strife
They toil, and weather the heat.
Lord, this has got them beat.
Soiled, wrinkled hands tell many a story
Many are sorry
Hopes undone, dreams shattered
Battered and tattered.
Look how we exploit their need
Look how they bleed to feed our greed
To a build a better life for our seed
But are they a different breed?
Why then the sweat and the toil?
Why then the blisters and boils?
I am lost
I often question
And there are no answers at hand
For I am afloat in the land of the endless sand
Anew
Myriad emotions begin to come out of the woodwork,
But tears are hard to come by.
If only I could cry, I'd be at peace, I say to myself.
It's dry season in these parts, comes the reply.
My head swims in and out of a mirage,
And my soul sinks into a boundless depth,
Truth hurts and is often bitter,
And the pain is for real, says the voice.
Take a walk into the woodland, the voice tells me.
I can't make any sense of this, I reply.
I'm alone, and I'm new here, and I may get lost, I fear.
How would you know if you haven't tried, I hear.
But tears are hard to come by.
If only I could cry, I'd be at peace, I say to myself.
It's dry season in these parts, comes the reply.
My head swims in and out of a mirage,
And my soul sinks into a boundless depth,
Truth hurts and is often bitter,
And the pain is for real, says the voice.
Take a walk into the woodland, the voice tells me.
I can't make any sense of this, I reply.
I'm alone, and I'm new here, and I may get lost, I fear.
How would you know if you haven't tried, I hear.
Moses
One of my more Biblical poems..
Stammerer, Prince of Egypt, and Jethro's shepherd,
How was the long sojourn in the wild?
You were once floating down the Nile,
Now, you are Sinai's child,
With nothing, but a worn, twisted staff by your side.
Forty years of wander,
Forty years of scorn,
In the horizon is the promised land,
But alone, on Mount Nebo, you stand,
With your love, tattered and torn.
Canaan is but a dream,
Wake up, my Prince, and let out a scream.
How was the long sojourn in the wild?
You were once floating down the Nile,
Now, you are Sinai's child,
With nothing, but a worn, twisted staff by your side.
Forty years of wander,
Forty years of scorn,
In the horizon is the promised land,
But alone, on Mount Nebo, you stand,
With your love, tattered and torn.
Canaan is but a dream,
Wake up, my Prince, and let out a scream.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Wanderer's Wisdom.
In his mind’s cavernous abyss,
Thoughts run rampant, wild and free.
Ravaging his soul with a guilt laden memory.
Eternal wanderer in a quest for bliss,
And what does he have to show?
Heavy lies the crown of thorns.
But the bearer it adorns,
Has a beatific smile, the sun shining on his brow.
And then the wanderer spake,
Pain is incidental,
But suffering, is a choice you make.
Thoughts run rampant, wild and free.
Ravaging his soul with a guilt laden memory.
Eternal wanderer in a quest for bliss,
And what does he have to show?
Heavy lies the crown of thorns.
But the bearer it adorns,
Has a beatific smile, the sun shining on his brow.
And then the wanderer spake,
Pain is incidental,
But suffering, is a choice you make.
Nasrallah Of Lebanon
I wrote this during the Lebanon-Hezbollah-Israel conflict.
The land of milk and honey,
The land of the great book.
But I see old women on bended knee,
Crying! Their children, the war took.
Out of the desert came the voice of the zealot,
Arise sons of Lebanon,
Look! I have brought you what you had sought,
So buckle up your armor, armageddon's on.
Ah! Tyre is on fire,
Don't the flames burn bright.
The city, a funeral pyre,
And the fanatic's happy with the sight.
Ahead are the shores of the lake,
The shores of lake Galilee.
Lets bloody, the placid waters make,
Drown everyone, let no one flee.
Why give peace a chance?
Why stop the rain of rockets on Haifa?
Raise your guns and break into a dance,
The Reaper's happy with the harvest so far.
The land of the great book.
But I see old women on bended knee,
Crying! Their children, the war took.
Out of the desert came the voice of the zealot,
Arise sons of Lebanon,
Look! I have brought you what you had sought,
So buckle up your armor, armageddon's on.
Ah! Tyre is on fire,
Don't the flames burn bright.
The city, a funeral pyre,
And the fanatic's happy with the sight.
Ahead are the shores of the lake,
The shores of lake Galilee.
Lets bloody, the placid waters make,
Drown everyone, let no one flee.
Why give peace a chance?
Why stop the rain of rockets on Haifa?
Raise your guns and break into a dance,
The Reaper's happy with the harvest so far.
Zafar's Karma
About the Last Mughal Emperor - Bahadur Shah Zafar, who died in exile in Burma.
The whisper of your soul
The murmur of your heart
Don't they tell you that the bells toll
And that you've done your part.
Vitality was your name,
Your eyes had vision, the chalice of life,
But wheels of time dragged away your fame,
Your very existence is rife with strife.
The graveyard of every broken dream,
And the wilderness of many an uttered cry,
Your life, a tumbling twig in a flooded stream
Ah! look at you, aging yellow bones, brittle and dry.
The king a pauper, in exile in Burma,
Some call it fate while he calls it karma.
The murmur of your heart
Don't they tell you that the bells toll
And that you've done your part.
Vitality was your name,
Your eyes had vision, the chalice of life,
But wheels of time dragged away your fame,
Your very existence is rife with strife.
The graveyard of every broken dream,
And the wilderness of many an uttered cry,
Your life, a tumbling twig in a flooded stream
Ah! look at you, aging yellow bones, brittle and dry.
The king a pauper, in exile in Burma,
Some call it fate while he calls it karma.
Hope Floats
A good friend of mine had the worst heartbreak ever. He was responsible in a lot of ways for what happened to him, but he is also is a great guy, and it hurt my friends and I to see him this way. His state provoked me into writing a few lines...something I haven't done for a good 2 months now.
You are a few seas away
Alone. Only pain for company.
My friend, sometimes love isn’t enough to see love through.
Desolate is the wilderness.
Was the oasis you sought a fleeting mirage?
Was it your time? Was your throat parched enough?
Anger is the seed of sorrow.
Bitter is the harvest of wrath,
Thorns abound your path.
What have you to show?
Empty hands. Black hole for a soul?
Lost are the dreams you dreamt,
And this is a nightmare you are living.
Don’t you look deep within?
Wish life wasn’t a riddle.
Wish life was a game you’ve mastered.
Harsh words spoken cut deeper than any sword,
Even a sword crafted by the fiery hands of Vulcan.
My friend, sometimes love isn’t enough to see love through.
Look beyond the seas that separate us.
Tomorrow will still bring a dawn.
Gloom can’t hide much, but inside your heart.
Undying is one’s spirit,
If you let it free.
Yes, your horizon is bleak,
The pristine dawn is not yet yours.
Wallow in your misery,
For you are but a man.
Quagmire for an abode.
The bog of hurt.
Deep is the chasm of your heart.
An empty cavern,
A dry river bed that once held promise.
Sweet is love.
The stench of its death, though, is overpowering.
It fills your every pore,
Your eyes have lost their light.
Just seeing isn’t sight.
Have you in you the fire?
The one that once burnt bright?
All I can see are ashes,
Just living isn’t life.
Let the eternal light of the One be your beacon,
When you have no answer to your questions,
When you have no where else to turn,
Let divine providence guide you,
And lead you to the warmth of your home.
Scarred from battles of the heart,
Worthy, are you not?
To find solace in your beloved’s warm embrace.
The cycle of life does make it turns.
Life is, but a wheel.
Your hunger may be disguised.
And your desire may be dead.
But while your heart is beating,
There is hope, still.
And your time is sure to come,
For thou art a true prince.
You are a few seas away
Alone. Only pain for company.
My friend, sometimes love isn’t enough to see love through.
Desolate is the wilderness.
Was the oasis you sought a fleeting mirage?
Was it your time? Was your throat parched enough?
Anger is the seed of sorrow.
Bitter is the harvest of wrath,
Thorns abound your path.
What have you to show?
Empty hands. Black hole for a soul?
Lost are the dreams you dreamt,
And this is a nightmare you are living.
Don’t you look deep within?
Wish life wasn’t a riddle.
Wish life was a game you’ve mastered.
Harsh words spoken cut deeper than any sword,
Even a sword crafted by the fiery hands of Vulcan.
My friend, sometimes love isn’t enough to see love through.
Look beyond the seas that separate us.
Tomorrow will still bring a dawn.
Gloom can’t hide much, but inside your heart.
Undying is one’s spirit,
If you let it free.
Yes, your horizon is bleak,
The pristine dawn is not yet yours.
Wallow in your misery,
For you are but a man.
Quagmire for an abode.
The bog of hurt.
Deep is the chasm of your heart.
An empty cavern,
A dry river bed that once held promise.
Sweet is love.
The stench of its death, though, is overpowering.
It fills your every pore,
Your eyes have lost their light.
Just seeing isn’t sight.
Have you in you the fire?
The one that once burnt bright?
All I can see are ashes,
Just living isn’t life.
Let the eternal light of the One be your beacon,
When you have no answer to your questions,
When you have no where else to turn,
Let divine providence guide you,
And lead you to the warmth of your home.
Scarred from battles of the heart,
Worthy, are you not?
To find solace in your beloved’s warm embrace.
The cycle of life does make it turns.
Life is, but a wheel.
Your hunger may be disguised.
And your desire may be dead.
But while your heart is beating,
There is hope, still.
And your time is sure to come,
For thou art a true prince.
Fooling Around
My friend Subbu (that is short for Subramaniam Ananthanarayan, which is quite a mouthful) wrote a note on Facebook, and I wrote something in reply, and then we went back and forth for a wee bit. It is corny as hell, but it was fun while it lasted, and I thought I'd reproduce it here on the blog.
Subbu:
From Bad To Verse
Tuesday, September 9, 2008 at 8:37am
The apple of my eye is forbidden fruit
Little cherub with the bow just won’t shoot
She’s got me under her spell, this is her curse
I’m going from bad to verse
She smiles and lights up every star in the sky
She is my sun, my who, my yes, my why
But she hears me not, though I scream me hoarse
As I go from bad to verse
Her voice it sends me spinning yonder
Out over the edge or teetering on the
My mind’s left me, my heart is hers
She’s got me going from bad to verse
I’ve forsaken reason in my search for rhyme
If she is a crime, I’m doing my time
When writer turns poet, there’s nothing worse
He’s going from bad to verse
Like moth I am to her - flame
It scares me to so much as say her name
I say it and soon the universe blurs
I go from bad to verse
Her pull is too strong, my end will be sweeter
Coming as it will in the pentameter
So say me a prayer when it passes, my hearse
For I’ve gone from bad to verse
Bennet Abraham wrote
at 4:25pm
Her reply is terse
It is not you, it is the purse.
It is fat, but it is not fat enough,
And thats your curse.
So, those wounds, as you nurse
Think of someone who cares
For you, in good health and for worse
Stop now. Before you go from Bad to Verse!
Subramaniam Ananthanarayanan (Ogilvy) wrote
at 4:54pm
No reply came
No reply will
She's colder than cold
Chiller than chill
So what of me you ask
Am i drinking from glass?
Am i draining the cask?
This much i can say
This much is true
I've emptied the mug and the brewery too!
Bennet Abraham wrote
at 4:57pm
Budweiser called. They want their money back
Bennet Abraham wrote
at 5:19pm
By the Irish country side,
The Old brewer awaits the tide
As good lads change from Jekyll to Hyde.
Pints of bitter and ale
And out comes the tale
Of lost love, drought of the heart, storms and hail.
So drink by the stream
And lets sing as a team,
Only to wake up and find it all a dream.
Subramaniam Ananthanarayanan (Ogilvy) wrote
at 5:42pm
We who are the Kings of rhyme
We who dream of all that's not
We who live outside of time
We who dare to unchain thought
We who keep this world alive
We who burn with every breath
We who gave the queen her hive
We are the men she puts to death
But such a travesty is all to old
Woman gives man shoulder cold
To Old Man Brewer we turn as one
And sing till one day the song is done
Bennet Abraham wrote
at 5:51pm
You can kill the man
But not his thought
Ye queen with your hive
Our songs are still alive
To the woman, we turn and pray
Give us today an answer, or slay
Us, and our pain
Who is to lose, and who is to gain?
Subramaniam Ananthanarayanan (Ogilvy) wrote
at 6:22pm
Your words they are a ray of hope
Or for me it was the tree and rope
I see it now it’s all so clear
All doubt is gone and so is fear
In myself now I must trust
Shine my armour (it’d begun to rust)
Fly the standard again high
Rend the air with a fearsome cry
Ride over fields and over the moor
Fight the demons and reach her door
Then put her to the question, I must
Win this day or...bite the dust
Bennet Abraham wrote
at 8:43pm
The east wind from the hills is behind me
I surge and break free
The flag flying high
War cries,
Fill the air.
The end is nigh,
Says a whisper.
But I have to have her,
This is not the time to lose hope, or err.
I brandish my sword, and clamor up the hill,
This right here, is time for the kill.
Blood and gore, they don't phase me,
And for her, I shall do it with glee.
Flee..
Climb those tall Oak trees
Pervade my sight,
Before l strike your hearts with fright.
You can have the spoils of war,
What I want is yonder and afar.
The knight continues his ride,
And he won't rest till he has her by his side.
Subbu:
From Bad To Verse
Tuesday, September 9, 2008 at 8:37am
The apple of my eye is forbidden fruit
Little cherub with the bow just won’t shoot
She’s got me under her spell, this is her curse
I’m going from bad to verse
She smiles and lights up every star in the sky
She is my sun, my who, my yes, my why
But she hears me not, though I scream me hoarse
As I go from bad to verse
Her voice it sends me spinning yonder
Out over the edge or teetering on the
My mind’s left me, my heart is hers
She’s got me going from bad to verse
I’ve forsaken reason in my search for rhyme
If she is a crime, I’m doing my time
When writer turns poet, there’s nothing worse
He’s going from bad to verse
Like moth I am to her - flame
It scares me to so much as say her name
I say it and soon the universe blurs
I go from bad to verse
Her pull is too strong, my end will be sweeter
Coming as it will in the pentameter
So say me a prayer when it passes, my hearse
For I’ve gone from bad to verse
Bennet Abraham wrote
at 4:25pm
Her reply is terse
It is not you, it is the purse.
It is fat, but it is not fat enough,
And thats your curse.
So, those wounds, as you nurse
Think of someone who cares
For you, in good health and for worse
Stop now. Before you go from Bad to Verse!
Subramaniam Ananthanarayanan (Ogilvy) wrote
at 4:54pm
No reply came
No reply will
She's colder than cold
Chiller than chill
So what of me you ask
Am i drinking from glass?
Am i draining the cask?
This much i can say
This much is true
I've emptied the mug and the brewery too!
Bennet Abraham wrote
at 4:57pm
Budweiser called. They want their money back
Bennet Abraham wrote
at 5:19pm
By the Irish country side,
The Old brewer awaits the tide
As good lads change from Jekyll to Hyde.
Pints of bitter and ale
And out comes the tale
Of lost love, drought of the heart, storms and hail.
So drink by the stream
And lets sing as a team,
Only to wake up and find it all a dream.
Subramaniam Ananthanarayanan (Ogilvy) wrote
at 5:42pm
We who are the Kings of rhyme
We who dream of all that's not
We who live outside of time
We who dare to unchain thought
We who keep this world alive
We who burn with every breath
We who gave the queen her hive
We are the men she puts to death
But such a travesty is all to old
Woman gives man shoulder cold
To Old Man Brewer we turn as one
And sing till one day the song is done
Bennet Abraham wrote
at 5:51pm
You can kill the man
But not his thought
Ye queen with your hive
Our songs are still alive
To the woman, we turn and pray
Give us today an answer, or slay
Us, and our pain
Who is to lose, and who is to gain?
Subramaniam Ananthanarayanan (Ogilvy) wrote
at 6:22pm
Your words they are a ray of hope
Or for me it was the tree and rope
I see it now it’s all so clear
All doubt is gone and so is fear
In myself now I must trust
Shine my armour (it’d begun to rust)
Fly the standard again high
Rend the air with a fearsome cry
Ride over fields and over the moor
Fight the demons and reach her door
Then put her to the question, I must
Win this day or...bite the dust
Bennet Abraham wrote
at 8:43pm
The east wind from the hills is behind me
I surge and break free
The flag flying high
War cries,
Fill the air.
The end is nigh,
Says a whisper.
But I have to have her,
This is not the time to lose hope, or err.
I brandish my sword, and clamor up the hill,
This right here, is time for the kill.
Blood and gore, they don't phase me,
And for her, I shall do it with glee.
Flee..
Climb those tall Oak trees
Pervade my sight,
Before l strike your hearts with fright.
You can have the spoils of war,
What I want is yonder and afar.
The knight continues his ride,
And he won't rest till he has her by his side.
Introspecting..
Why is it that your heart soars heights but your mind ties you to the ground?
Ask yourself if you free or if you are bound?
Perceptions are all you care for, and your soul is dead.
Do you have wings for hands or are your legs made of lead?
Ask yourself if you free or if you are bound?
Perceptions are all you care for, and your soul is dead.
Do you have wings for hands or are your legs made of lead?
An Unfinished Poem..
One of my earlier poems. I wrote this one during the Gulf War (yes, it's that old). I never did complete it. Maybe I will some day..
I saw a little girl in tattered clothes, all of nine years,
Her pretty eyes betrayed her pain, her fears.
Big city lights around her but she’s an unknown face by the roadside,
Never had a father, hardly knew her mother – In whom to confide?
A hungry stomach doesn’t feed itself, so she has to beg,
All of nine years and her life on its last leg.
Then came the boy from Baghdad,
Almost a man, a childhood he never had.
He once was happy, had limbs, siblings, a family
But soon came strange men from strange lands, dropped bombs in glee.
Someone else’s war but he paid the price,
And the sun set on him, never to rise.
I saw a little girl in tattered clothes, all of nine years,
Her pretty eyes betrayed her pain, her fears.
Big city lights around her but she’s an unknown face by the roadside,
Never had a father, hardly knew her mother – In whom to confide?
A hungry stomach doesn’t feed itself, so she has to beg,
All of nine years and her life on its last leg.
Then came the boy from Baghdad,
Almost a man, a childhood he never had.
He once was happy, had limbs, siblings, a family
But soon came strange men from strange lands, dropped bombs in glee.
Someone else’s war but he paid the price,
And the sun set on him, never to rise.
Apathy (Also, my nuttiest poem ever)
I have been scheduled for few training sessions designed to help me reach the next level in my roadmap. The training sessions are strenous and it is a lot of information being showered on a guy whose attention span is...eh? What am I trying to quantify here...My attention span is non-existant. I have ADD of the worst kind.
So the other day after losing the battle like I always do, I gave up the idea of concentrating and started writing random stuff. It all started with the news about some idiots trying to blow planes with nitroglycerine smuggled on board in bottles. And yet, here we were blissful in our own existence, unmindful of what was happening in other parts of the world.
My poem is incoherent and discontinous at first glance but do spare a second read. It is about a self obsessed man, who can only think about himself and his woman while the rest of the world is being beaten a dog's death.
Here is what I wrote -
Took on mighty winds, hills and the strong mist
Searched distant lands with a comb
Baby was your Pop a terrorist
Because you are the bomb
I'll play the tambourine
And you can do your dance
While the wily mix nitroglycerine
To blow a plane over France
Dontcha worry honey, I got a boomerang
I'm gonna hunt a few bunny rabbits
And we can have 'em with tang
We never did care for the broken
We certainly hate the poor
Unless they have been spoken
To track our wandering mare's spoor
So let the world go up in flames
While we drink our gin
Even Caesar had everyone playing games
With slaves armored in tin.
P.S. I took the liberty of borrowing a funny line from one of those "101 pick up lines that will get your ass kicked" sites
So the other day after losing the battle like I always do, I gave up the idea of concentrating and started writing random stuff. It all started with the news about some idiots trying to blow planes with nitroglycerine smuggled on board in bottles. And yet, here we were blissful in our own existence, unmindful of what was happening in other parts of the world.
My poem is incoherent and discontinous at first glance but do spare a second read. It is about a self obsessed man, who can only think about himself and his woman while the rest of the world is being beaten a dog's death.
Here is what I wrote -
Took on mighty winds, hills and the strong mist
Searched distant lands with a comb
Baby was your Pop a terrorist
Because you are the bomb
I'll play the tambourine
And you can do your dance
While the wily mix nitroglycerine
To blow a plane over France
Dontcha worry honey, I got a boomerang
I'm gonna hunt a few bunny rabbits
And we can have 'em with tang
We never did care for the broken
We certainly hate the poor
Unless they have been spoken
To track our wandering mare's spoor
So let the world go up in flames
While we drink our gin
Even Caesar had everyone playing games
With slaves armored in tin.
P.S. I took the liberty of borrowing a funny line from one of those "101 pick up lines that will get your ass kicked" sites
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