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Paul Fleischer Poem
MY BROTHER; THE MESSIAH
By these dunghills, they stood
By these morn Mecca, we paid homage
Daily to the papyri gong beaters.
Singing a litany of collapses and failings
Of a revolutionary government that sit’s on our sacred stool
A stool that had fattened legs which imbibe our sweat,
Polished with elaborate designs,
and on it’s head, sat, the rump and rotund figure of father Christmas; our veiled liberator
Yes, siblings they did roam our streets
With cohorts carrying sacks of decoys and bric a bracs
Blowing rhetoric trumpets ,calling for a tune of pipe dreams and petasos’;of an eminent land to be called Alexander the great
hmmm! Manumission, manumission
Art thou just castles in Spain?
Why doth we dream of you in vain till we are slapped with the saccharine taste of propaganda and the dulcet tunes of equality?
lay our stockings out for the jolly man and shed our thumbs as ransom
for the imminent sovereign
only to know that our fathers had given birth
to fighters who fight against us
vampire bats that drink our blood
behind the murk of deceit`
and in the words of trust
we plant them in our hearts
but they blossom and cause harm
fatten up and green fracture the wobbly legs of our consecrated stool
Copyright © Paul Fleischer | Year Posted 2012
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