Gulf Crisis
Nothing is left to rage about
We have only passive flight of words
Over a lingering doubt
That we like fish and birds
Should keep the same mortality
Insecure
Against the norm of stupidity.
What is the cure?
Against the sea burning and choking
The air with smoke
Against the earth upward hurling
Black as bile, and the British bloke
Counting the pence of his loss
And not the death of innocense
We have found in dross
Of civility and prosperity. This is no sense!
The earth is bleeding from her bowels deep
A gaping hole is torn in her heart
The turtles are dead and not asleep
Stock by stock we fall apart.
I can smell the carnage across the gulf dark
Of reason slick as oil
All measure of trust is but a spark
From the mountain of our crumbling toil.
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