Mayhem At the Marathon

The world is filled with wackos; How horrible and sick To plant some bombs and walk away – What makes such people tick? What satisfaction can be gained By knowing you’ve destroyed So many lives? A question That would even stymie Freud. A joyous day, the marathon; For Boston, it’s supreme – The runners at the finish line In constant steady stream… Then boom! A bomb explodes, A second following behind, To permanently shatter Everybody’s peace of mind. We watch the images repeat And just like J.F.K. Or 9/11, we get hooked And cannot look away. I guess the bomber’s purpose, then, Like those who’ve gone before, Is playing puppet master – Only that and nothing more. But people aren’t puppets So if evil’s got the strings, There’s no end to the heartache That his awful action brings.