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ONCE MORE BY THE POTOMAC
Here is a Jolly Good Fellow,
he's painted the White House yellow.
Here are the Mighty Generals,
bemedaled for fighting memories.
Here are the Hallowed Offices,
groggy with foggy prophecies.
Here are the Strategic Centers,
filled with their caviar emptors.
Here is our Congress, scrupulous
in making their marbles the cupola's.
And here are We, The People,
each one a moral cripple
or athlete, well-trained in frowning
on someone else's drowning.
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BOSNIA TUNE
As you pour yourself a scotch,
crush a roach, or check your watch,
as your hand adjusts your tie,
people die.
In the towns with funny names,
hit by bullets, caught in flames,
by and large not knowing why,
people die.
In small places you don't know
of, yet big for having no
chance to scream or say good-bye,
people die.
People die as you elect
new apostles of neglect,
self-restraint, etc.-whereby
people die.
Too far off to practice love
for thy neighbor/brother Slav,
where your cherubs dread to fly,
people die.
While the statues disagree,
Cain's version, history
for its fuel tends to buy
those who die.
As you watch the athletes score,
check your latest statement, or
sing your child a lullaby,
people die.
Time, whose sharp blood-thirsty quill
parts the killed from those who kill,
will pronounce the latter tribe
as your type. |
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