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.
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