I KNOW HE CAN’T FLY


How did he rise so high?

I know he can’t fly.

Is he the joker, too,

Doing dastardly deeds

And pretending to be true?

He is a poor example

For a nation to follow.

He spouts obscenities

And his truths are hollow.

Where is the would-be king

Who looks after his sheep?

Maybe he’s in Russia fast asleep.

He demands the right

To speak his mind,

While insisting those that differ

Remain mute and blind.

He ignores minorities

Unless they wear white,

And the rest of the free

Should stay in at night.

There’s a rumor about a national purge,

He might be the only one left

If he gets the urge.

GHOSTS OF OUR ANCESTORS


Where are the heroes that are rising from the earth?

Where are the youth who have ignored the truth?

The heroes and youth are no longer brave,

The truth is dead and buried in graves.

And ghosts of our ancestors are crying, crying, crying.

The truth is no longer remembered or respected.

And each of us prepares for civil war,

No longer do we listen like we did before.

We hear our own words and cut other words short.

And ghosts of our fathers come marching, marching, marching.

There are rumors of blood being shed in the hills,

There are dreams of street battles just for the thrills.

There are fingers poised to blast away,

Neighbors and relatives killed if they get in the way.

And the hearts of our fathers are bleeding, bleeding, bleeding.

We could be the heroes that are rising from the earth,

We could be the ones who respect the truth.

It will be our blood that will stain the soil,

Until our hatred ceases to boil.

And our ghosts are satisfied with

Crying, crying, crying

bleeding, bleeding, bleeding

marching, marching, marching.

Dying. dying, dying.

The ghosts will be satisfied when all is quiet and still.

September 24, 2017

Dan Roberson

 

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