The killing of a poet
  There are many sorts of poets those who
extoll the sitting regime tell of order it has brought
their words are recited they win prizes but few, today remembers their names
Federico Lorca was not one of them.
He wrote the truth of the brutal fascistic nature of the state and what
it had become.
He was a man they had to ****.
He tried to flee but on a side road he was stopped by assassins, at the time
he was in the company of a one-armed priest a communist
They had to dig their own grave.
Since Lorca was gay, they shot him in the rear “you like this sort of things
they laughed, these cruel people were killing art.
They also shot him in the groin: squealed like a pig they later said.
This was a Spain of old but the ghost of fascism is still among us we have
To be vigilant.