The balloon has popped
Life's merry-go-round stopped
The 21st century's bubble burst
We got hit with the worst
Written perhaps in the stars
Else the scheme of a commissar
No one knows what's ahead
Already 800,000 dead
Now's the time to take stock
No turning back the clock
Today at six I tuned my television set
To gaze attentively... Propaganda they
All say and that today I could testify to
The spelt evil. The vision telegrammed.
To no avail the brother that was caught
In betwixt the shooting and rampages
Of the commuters was not screened...
Yet they say no to press censorship too
I later realised that I had no saying even
When terrorised by my own. So absurd
And my groans never impact the comrade
Even the commissar so reluctant to my plea.
The dim past houses warriors of yesterday
whose lachrymose trail of tears
continue to whet the sympathy of one diehard
dilettante commissar born and bred
upon the soil those indigenous Tribes
(with that ill-fitting misnomer of noble savages)
left their legendary mythic and epic legions of prowess
yet fell prey to a mightier force
whereby treasonous treaties played on innocence and naiveté
interestingly and ironically enough memorializing such mighty peoples
thru place names and sports teams
which patronage ranks as mere condescension
and barely compensates for compensation and vindication
for genocide plus gross mistreatment and sacrilege
of token Native American remnants
corralled on dirt poor reservations
still evoking the tormented ghosts of a forgotten time.
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