Old crippled man, charcoal burnt and ashen,
a thousand days debauchery molded you in this fashion.
Haggard and stiff, you can barely walk across the stage--
no one ever thought that you would make it to this age.
Your girth has expanded (although it’s covered well),
but still your piercing voice summons demons up from hell.
Not as strong as it was once, but eerie just the same,
calling those who’ve followed you, who now chant your name,
to assemble in our legions, gathered in this shrine,
where we repeat the catechism, in throbbing metered rhymes.

Are you a madman? Or just a troubadour
who lends melodic shimmer to verses dark and dour.
Whose singing slides and skims along the edge of sanity,
but who never surrendered to the true evil of vanity.
Recovered from drunken, dissolute despair,
to call the faithful masses back, never mind the wear and tear--
to plod the journey of your craft, to sing before the crowd
whose loyalty, to your band, forever is avowed.

Then the children of Israel
did evil in the sight of the Lord,
and served the Baals.      Judges 2:11

Mendel Schneerson, very wise Jew
Told the Chabadniks what to do;
Watched his synagogues expand
Expounding doctrines with his brand;
Rambled about Talmud, Tenakh;
How to recognize Moschiach—
Implying could be he himself . . .
(Droll old bearded Lubavitch elf.)

Amidst a flood of Noahide laws,
Let us now analyze, and pause:

This rabbi/slash/Euro-equivocator
Inspired his own to despise the goyim.
Six hundred thirteen commandments later,
Christ is still king. The fact must annoy him;
This greatest instructor and teacher of men . . .
Reb Schneerson died—and did not rise again.

SQUEAK the fife, and beat the drum,
Independence-day is come!
Let the roasting pig be bled,
Quick twist off the cockerel’s head,
Quickly rub the pewter platter,
Heap the nut-cakes, fried in butter;
Set the cups and beaker-glass,
The pumpkin and the apple-sauce;
Send the keg to shop for brandy;
Maple-sugar we have handy.
Independent, staggering ****,
A noggin mix of swinging thick;
Sal, put on your russet skirt,
Jotham, get your boughten shirt;
To-day we dance to tiddle ******.
—Here comes ***** with his fiddle;
*****, take a dram of whisky,
And play up Yankee Doodle frisky.
Moll, come, leave your witched tricks,
And let us have a reel of six.
Father and mother shall make two;
Sal, Moll, and I, stand all a-row.
*****, play and dance with quality;
This is the day of blest equality.
Father and mother are but men,
And *****—is a citizen.
Come foot it, Sal—Moll, figure in,
And, mother, you dance up to him;
Now saw as fast as e’er you can do,
And, father, you cross o’er to *****.
—Thus we dance, and thus we play,
On glorious Independent day.—
Rub more rosin on your bow,
And let us have another go.
Zounds! as sure as eggs and bacon,
Here’s Ensign Sneak, and Uncle Deacon,
Aunt Thiah, and their Bets behind her,
On blundering mare, than beetle blinder.
And there’s the ’squire too, with his lady—
Sal, hold the beast, I’ll take the baby.
Moll, bring the ’squire our great arm-chair,
Good folks, we’re glad to see you here.
Jotham, get the great case-bottle,
Your teeth can pull its corn-cob stopple.
Ensign,—Deacon, never mind;
’Squire, drink until you’re blind.
Thus we drink and dance away,
This glorious Independent day!

     Royall Tyler (1757-1826)

Our fathers fought for Liberty,
They struggled long and well,
History of their deeds can tell—
But did they leave us free?

Are we free from vanity,
Free from pride, and free from self,
Free from love of power and pelf,
From everything that's beggarly?

Are we free from stubborn will,
From low hate and malice small,
From opinion's tyrant thrall?
Are none of us our own slaves still?

Are we free to speak our thought,
To be happy, and be poor,
Free to enter Heaven's door,
To live and labor as we ought?

Are we then made free at last
From the fear of what men say,
Free to reverence today,
Free from the slavery of the Past?

Our fathers fought for liberty,
They struggled long and well,
History of their deeds can tell—
But ourselves must set us free.

James Russell Lowell  (1819-1891)

On the backs of
flies
we wait for the
next thing.
Something is
always coming.
A birth or death,
food or hunger
hatred
laughter
love...

Something is always
coming around the
corner.
The Mad Hatter with
mushroom tea.
A strange color of
blue that tastes like
almonds.
A ****** that sparkles
in the night.

Listless mornings
of languid
walks with the
wife in the cool
of the evening.

A knife in the back,
a shark attack,
or maybe, just
possibly, you write
a poem about
waiting for the
next thing.

A night at the Museum,
and we're dressed to ****.
The mood is gleeful–
and the people, chill.
All court the kings and queens of shill.

Our ****** deeds are whitewashed clean.
Our grievous crimes are left unseen–
sanitized versions on the tv screen.

But our steps were tracked with care
by one who could no longer bear
the growing horror, the scenes from there.
The cry of anguish, the dead-eyed stare.

Now the blood drips on our shoes.
Our deaths headline the evening news.
Yet still, the truth has only views
on internet sites with volunteer crews.

When there is no other way
Desperation will have its day