. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Friday, December 3, 2010

A Political Song

Time only seems to make me older, and as I age, and the years accumulate, so too does my disdain for American politics and the system of governance I am a part of. I wrote this poem in a passion of anger once, fueled by some blatant idiocy showcased on the stage that is Washington DC, but I can no longer remember the specifics. As I re-read it now, I think it does not come across as angry enough...



There are whoremongers afoot
     perched in the upper echelons of our government,
Like thieving eagles hording a nest that is not their own,
Mocking us with their repulsive claims of representation,
Tyrants in the cloaks of gentle kings,
They boldly dare us to believe in lies

    and forfeit justice,
Surrender freedom,

They articulate in terms of love,

But their blood is black
   and poison,
Daily does the fissure widen,
Until the gap between them and us

     is a distance no bridge can span,
And our voices are lost echoes that die in the crossing,

What twisted mores do we abide?

Under the banner of peace our soldiers are slaughtered,
Devotion to their country is used against them,
A family is starved in order to save an industrialist,
Long live the Financier,
To abolish sickness we are all pronounced sick,
And our children are introduced to irrational fear,

They ask with hollow eyes and perfect smiles

     that we relinquish our ability to think for ourselves,
To resign our common sense,
Forgo the promises of our forefathers,
Until we are a country weak and brittle,
A prey to our enemies

     and a farce to our allies,
Controlled by those drunk with power,
Long-toothed vampires of vain glory

     siphoning the very life from their own heart,
Kicking out the legs of the chair they sit in,
The throne they have made it into.

01.10


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