Let's ban beer,
Expel wine,
Prohibit whiskey.

Let's banish ****,
Curse smokes,
Relegate ***.

Drive off knives,
Expatriate guns,
Deport bullies and fists.

Let's ward off the devine,
And the ghosts,
And those who think
They're holy sons;
In any or all
Religions.

Let's proclaim a holy war,
A jihad, if you wish,
Crusade against what
Makes us human,
And live in boring bliss.

In earlier times a Daughter was born
Who carried the welts of a belt
An oath of no children
By the Mother was sworn

Ten years went by
An she agreed to one
But you must never
Lay a hand on my son

The man felt afronted
By the Oath on his head
But agreed to the terms
His wife had said...

The son was born on
A hot august Morn
But the oath on his head
Was the Mans Scorn

As the Boy grew older
All of 8 years old he
Was told his mother ill
Her Failed sight ner seen

The Boy Had to help
The mother to cook
Taught by her
From recipe books

The Man owned a factory
Where each day he must be
After school his time
Was never free

He must clean
The factory floor
And haul the Rubish
Out the door

By 9 he was working
with 16 ft boards
To help make the slats
That paid for our Board

When ever the boy talked
Of what he had learned
He was ridiculed by the father
And vicously Spurned

He was called
Insane and stupid
Told he belonged in a
Mental institution

He was told
He was a slacker
That nothing he
Did was ever right

The Spite and the Hatred
built Day upon Day
His father argued
With all that he'd say

By 12 the Boy had
Longshoremans
Syndrome, from the
weight of the work

As his spine was growing
It bent the spine as it formed
The Raging went on day after day
The abuse heaped on the head of the Boy

When Finally he left
With his back to the door
For 2 years they never
Heard from the Son

Till he missed
Them and called
2 minutes it took till
The father started again

The son slammed
Down the phone in tears
And wasn't heard from
For another year

Through all of this from 5 years old
He'd been ***** by an older boy
And Held it all within Him
Afraid of his Father he never had told

All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack

The tree with a hundred years goes
Fires, wreckage, wind and snows
And bears so well it can't be heard
Not by men, beast or bird

The tree gives as a giver should
It's beauty among us and faithful wood
And the tree, silent to our woes
Stands tall when after all else goes

And the tree with patience practiced as an art
Lives better than us without a heart

Its a Land with 3 inches of Soil
Sprouts High Voltage Lines, Oil Derriks
And Microwave Towers everywhere
Like a Modern Steel Forest Landscape

The wind is ever present and Unending
Its a Cruel Wind, strips the Paint off of All
At Night the Howling and Humming of
All that steel wire sets your teeth on edge

The wind Strips the electrons from All
Leaving a Negative charge in the Air
Like some Electrical Spirit plagues the Land
Scrambling your thoughts and Actions

Its the Desolation Where Revial Meeting Tents
Flapped in 1930s wind there for Salvation of Souls
The Place where anger flares up from Minds wore down
A Brother gets shot over Drumstick in any given town

At the motel I pace in the Night hounded by the sound
As if I had to witness this Howling wind strip the Ground
Morning coffee I reach for a Styrofoam Cup with the Rolls
It Leaps 5 inches into my hand trying to get away from this Land

A Land of endless wind and sand run across West Texas Like
A Frieght train Whistling and Howling as it Rumbles By
Shaking the Ground with its Passing Through the Town
The Lands Only Salvation is its Blue unending Skies