The moon risen high, over
the burial vault of the sun
to the accompaniment of fireworks
from competing constellations
~ All this, before suppertime
Politician; “IT’S NOT MY FAULT,”
as someone digs another burial vault.
If people think the job is cushy,
they can kiss my oval sitting tushy.
Politician; “I’M NOT TO BLAME,”
we had to play this stupid war game.
Always send our best, look how well they fought,
just measure the freedom their lives have bought.
Politician; “YOU HAVE NO PROOF,”
that WMD might have been a spoof.
We sent over teams of super sleuths,
bent their reports into convenient truths.
Politician; “I WILL SHOW NO SHAME,”
for losing this military shell game.
It’s my family legacy I did inherit,
now generations will have to share it.
*For the four sentences contest which seemed to reverberate past experiences. In no way is
this meant to cast any doubt on our brave military men and women who bear the first brunt.
Across the circus ground
Where bells and whistles sound,
You took a coin and spent
It at the gypsy’s tent.
She spun you in a spell
Of ecstasy and hell,
And charged you some more gold
To have your doom foretold.
She offered you the use
Of stars for an excuse
To blame both years all gone
And yet to happen, on.
From womb to burial vault,
It’s all the gypsy’s fault,
Yet when she comes once more,
You’ll run to her tent door.
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