No lightly cawing jest now
but bird wheezle
from the filthy flying rags
of malcontent
of discontent
darkened further by the lies

Spreading their fetid steaming rage
Across the hills
Across the dales

and down in the valley,
valley so low –
where the mocows cringe,
“Bright shining as the sun.”

“When we push this button we could blow up the world,”
one said.

But they pushed anyway
And pushed and pushed again
And they found Nature
to be longsuffering
but ignored her cries to “Stop!”

and Ignorant in their glee
they did not perceive their ends...
No Taps:  only wind; then, silence.



Copyright © 2013 by John Russell; all rights reserved.  No reproduction allowed in any manner whatsoever without permission.