I feel the irony of life’s Nurturing molestation With painfully sweet romantic Rejection The Weapon driven home Comfortably In the womb of a moment’s Passing silence under Big, green umbrellas Outside a little cafe As the rain softly patterns On the shiny brand new Tanks And thousands of Armor-piercing rounds, Stacked high, Right next door to dollies with Blonde hair and blue eyes While puppies yelp And wag their tails, Nostrils flaring, At the smell of the sulfur and Tears mixing with soot from the Smoke stacks As our children pray For the bombs to cease their Taunting cackle So they might curl beneath their Blankets hoping perhaps this year Santa Claus might bring them That new toy machine gun from Their favorite new cartoon They saw on television Right after the Anti-violence commercial Aaron James Roberts a piggy wiggly proverb there’s all these fancy people every sunday headin’ for the town steeple gonna go talk to the air feel better make life fair see they hand out money to make the air happy sing songs they don’t know the words to but i can’t fret over what they do as long as it don’t become a reason to kill thy neighbor next crusade season and i’ve read a line or two out of that there holy book and i’m pretty sure them fancy people have given it a look and from my readin’ i never saw killing thy enemy is universal law so all you fancy people don’t tell me how it’s done wars ain’t settled with many a gun but with down home cookin’ and back alley fun.
The Essay on Smoking Smokers People Don
Some of my friends like to smoke, most don't. Non-smokers will probably tend to hang around more with non-smokers than with smokers, while smokers usually don't care. Smokers need lots of money - because smoking is expensive and keeps getting more expensive - at least in Germany. They usually have a nasty smell around them, except maybe they " re women, which means their perfume and general good ...
Lloyd Bailey Treblinka (1993) Still- A small town in Poland- Farmers, wagons, pigs, And in summer A phoenix of flowers. It carries a church, Old and worn Like a boot, like a rosary fingered, Off which mud and more May slide, smoother than faith. A train runs through Softly hissing; It is a sign of the times To hide one’s smoke, To shut ash away better. The houses are quite ash free, With a hint of growth, hushed. A shop sells Food, clothes, lampshades; And to burn, fat logs only.
Some residents are also stout, Have red faces As if the blood stained their skins, Not quite burned, not quite Embarrassed by light. Must be the cold, The starkness of having nothing To live down, Not enough to burn; It can be hard work living here. You may hear the usual laughs, Shouts, whistles, the odd cry… It is a quiet, ordinary place With nothing else to see now or to say, Save a clearing, sudden in the forest, Where you ” ll find a field of stones. David Fain man.
