When you get a FISA Warrant/
For electronic surveillance/
From psychic spies with/
Mind Control with psionic/
And radionic technology/
They first attack you with/
Voice to skull technology/
Which is voices in your head/
Their first objective is to make you/
Appear as a schizophrenic/
Medications will only amplify/
The effects of that technology/
You know you're not schizophrenic/
You know you're a victim/
Of that program because/
You somehow got a FISA Warrant/
For this electronic surveillance/
Nobody will ever believe you/
The voices can drive you mad/
There's nothing you can do/
Because those spies/
Are that sadistic/
Your destruction is their objective/
Nothing you can do about it/
Just stand your ground/
Strength and Patience/
Will get you through it/
It infinge on your rights/
Against the torture prevention act/
This may be the/
Land of the free/
But this stuff exists/
And it's beyond sadistic/
The troublesome throaty explosion
For which demanded is handkerchief
That helps to hinder hell’s diffusion
By the thoughtless simple man or chief…
The oft-followed by a dragged-out gob
The owner sends straight to nearby soil:
What had tried to chesty freedom rob
And a whole day for sufferer spoils…
A scurrying for antibiotics
Or soon, the chest shall be again heaved:
Haphazard gestures of semiotics,
The jerkily thrown off guard retrieved…
The attacked with, first, expectorant:
Syrupy stuff that keeps it at bay;
For cough’s accursed cause a search warrant,
In one’s airways delightful free way…
Cough’s innocent picture throat-clearing
Yet, muffle for a laughter rearing…
Capsule of disguised danger warning
For one you wish to see, next morning…
Blood - thirsty Agitators:
Their leader's imitators;
All the wild participants
With their slogans for drunk chants
And they all had pitch - Black pants:
The first thing Black Union grants
White's your doom just transparent,
One's white pant one's Death Warrant!
Thirst for fresh blood inherent,
One's bleeding corpse to parent
We're the Huge Elephants
For no business with crushed ants
What our legs do, too, to plants,
Out of their tips forcing rants
"Every new day never plans
Your big cannots to us " cans!".
Sir,
Hands off that Pen
Can i see your Poetry
License and Registration please
Sorry we have had several complaints
From both critics and reader's
That your Poem's aren't up to scratch
And i tend to agree with them
So unless you want me to come
back with a warrant
Put a lid on it
Find yourself another hobby
One that doesn't involve word's
and thoughts
Otherwise you will have your day
in court
For crimes against Literature
And the Prosecution has a list of
witnesses as long as your arm
Willing to testify your word's do
far more harm than good
Your Pen is an offensive Weapon
Sharper than Sword and Stones
Abortion, Your Death Warrant
By: Tom Wright
7/28/99
All Heaven cries out,
breaking the silence of the womb for those unborn.
I'm considered by the foolhardy not yet to be a life,
but who can know if I have thoughts, save God,
or, if in my silence, I ask the question,
shall I be next to die without an earthly life?
Will partial birth abortion be my fate?
Just hear me cry
then touch my hand.
Experience the joy that I could bring.
From beyond the gates I'm sent.
Who speaks for me while I yet can't?
Is this to be my fate,
in my brief time to taste death's sting?
This death sentence you pronounce upon me
will most surely be your yoke throughout eternity.
it’s colder now
much colder
ice clings to a welcome
few accept
the old couple
is absent
as are their family
of squirrels
a chilled sun peeks
through spindly branches
mocked by icy chimes
a distant church bell weeps
its tone muffled by the snow
it’s colder now
more from emptiness
than frost
John G. Lawless
©11/16/2018
warrant to arrest
From the time when your
Birthday start Friends & family
Having fun .....
You may get many wishes & gifts
But on the other hand , I will
Having fun...
To stole a part of your happiness to
Having fun....
& Broadcast my petals of dream to
not wish you ''HAPPY BIRTHDAY''
This year for sending A.............
warrant to arrest me in your Love
with love all
jagdish bajantri
Villanelle : Strike ! And you sign your own death warrant !
for Obama, a swell chap he may have been or may yet be
Strike ! And you sign your own death warrant !
Wild men’ll come a-gunning avenge their own god
Is that wart on Fa-ling line : Death by shot ?
Come they’ll too clad in black : King and President
All muttering under breath : « The Old Sod ! »
Strike ! And you sign your own death warrant !
You’ll have time to rue what a lone strike meant
Your shores were never at stake nor your Lord
Is that wart on Fa-ling line : Death by shot?
Those who build iron walls know they can’t hunt
Must the World be sacrificed for one god ?
Strike ! And you sign your own death warrant !
When d’you strike back for the Sandyhook Lent
The NRA strikes back and call you : « Sod »
Is that wart on Fa-ling line : Death by shot ?
Be the Statesman and make every word count
Bring the toddler gods to the feet of God
Strike ! And you sign your own death warrant !
Is the wart on Fa-ling line : Death by shot?
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
When you have them in place
Know
Love
Lord
A date is marked on the calendar you see.
It's an important one of great urgency.
Not appearing at the court house will be a shame.
The judge will issue a bench warrant in my name.
The police can come and haul away my tail.
His honor has the power to throw me into jail.
Inspired by another member's poem
Serving the warrant
( By S.Jagathsimhan Nair)
Today I cry to this dry dust
Of these paths that silently merge
With the scalded mud of these huts.
I cry in the name of all men
Who are not home as yet, driving
Trucks or boats or whatever in
Nameless listless wildernesses
Who can’t leave an address while away
But have erred and left one with law
Somewhere which doesn’t leave them now
Today I carry the govt’s
Threats and warrants to their women
Who break into piteous wails
As I utter their near ones’ names.
Quelling a rising storm inside
They stagger their private pains once more
Broken heart poem(old) for PD on 30 Mar 13
In this dust settled after much
Strife in some dumb past with the Dutch
By this port a rare vessel visits
As if by mistake or memory lapse
I locate houses only their neighbours
Know, and sell law’s bitterness
To these bitter-gourds of earth while
Mewling kids keep tugging at their clothes.
I am in turn as dry as this dust
And as parched as their crackling throats
I am today these dark seas whose roar
Is my stiff word and wan silence.
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