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Poem

It awes me so to stand, pen and paper quivering in my hands;
My solemn river of a mind’s been shaken by the quaking land.
It seems to me worthwhile to mention, the city’s filled with wild tension.
Bands of townsfolk speak with me in quiet, anxious pension.
Beside me sits a clan of in-laws, clad in dampened purple plaid
Who say the conflict rising now is worse than what they’ve ever had.
I feel great sorrow hearing tales of how such tragedy came to be, 
A woman to my left so kindly illustrates for me;

“Our culture’s driven further day by day,” she says, “and now we pray
That we shall see it once again. Those thieves are taking joy away.
With us I hope cheese-rights shall stay, with us forever longer
Perhaps ,with luck, those brutes will meet a death by faithful monger.”

It aches my heart to see the passion passing through the south,
And knowing it’s caused bodies piling at the river’s mouth.
The soldiers lay now, mangled bodies in the ancient streets,
It's safe to say that past today, tradition shan’t repeat.
Though it's a shame to say the rights are gone, its sadly true
But through the blue they shall renew; Now Tom, it's back to you!

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