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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The world today is split in two … or three... or four... or maybe more, but nonetheless, one must confess, all wage their wars as heretofore. While blunderbusses prey for us within our world where gods deceive, atomic war, white phosphorus and napalm gel that burns, bereave. Yes, Tweedledumb oft beats the drum and pokes the pig and baits the boar while tongues are wrung as songs are sung distorting hymns of ‘Nevermore’. And all the while the hordes defile forgotten ghosts who haunt the coasts awash in tears of crocodiles who’ve lost the least but rue the most. And Tweedledumber, somewhat glummer, fills the sheath with claws and teeth to arm the hacks and maniacs who’ll dance the dance that death bequeaths. Though blood runs red amongst the dead, along the track the holes are black and filled with human flesh in shreds - for wily worms, a midnight snack. In distant days, hell’s breeze ablaze, death’s final wreath will sink beneath ould yahoo’s wicked words that raise the underworld from underneath. But Hannibal, implacable, is something weird and far more feared by captured pawns within the squall of sorry souls who’ve disappeared. The devil deals the dead man’s hand to Tweedledumber, Tweedledumb who gamble in the promised land, fill kingdom come with martyrdom. Both Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber slaying for more living space have churned the chum throughout the summer - carnage in a crowded place. They worship warships, tanks galore, cool macho stuff that’s sent to snuff – along the shore the cannons roar, some loud enough to call God’s bluff. While passing over fields of clover, every breath still smells of death that’s dropped by drones and other rovers shaming freedom’s shibboleth. When phones explode and lawns are mowed while Tweedledumb, the reaper, strums, royal boats on River Styx are rowed by moneyed men with calloused thumbs. When Tweedledumb can’t overcome the famished flocks midst sands and rocks, or clear the slum to rid the scum he’ll talk the talk to hard-nosed hawks. And they in turn, with naught to learn, will flap their wings and pull the strings of those who yearn the quick return of sandbox kings that victory brings. Yes Tweedledumber makes him happy sending BB guns and bombs, maintaining armies tough and scrappy killing kids, their dads and moms. Because the Tweedles have no qualms effacing foes’ knees, heads and toes, the pious pray and sing sad psalms the while that thousands die in throes.
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