#invaders
In I came to Dublin town,
Riding one fine morning,
I spied some Johnny Bullies
And I started off a'cussing!
Leave my home,
Go on get out.
Leave the whiskey,
Leave the grub.
Tell the king
To go **** off
And stay in his doe-hog hovel.
O'er glens of An Cabhán
There flew a rag of red,
I tore it off from where it hung
And ripped it all to shreds!
Leave my house,
You're unwelcome.
Leave the rope & iron.
Tell the king
To go **** off,
Lest he would rather violence.
In Londonderry & Belfast,
Pleasant little branches,
We'll grow ourselves gigantic oaks
Uproot their picket fences!
Leave my home,
Go on get out.
Leave the whiskey,
Leave the grub.
Tell the king
To go **** off
And stay in his doe-hog hovel.
Say the hounds are all but slept,
Yet I still hear the barking.
I think it restful pouting
Readying for a real good bouting!
Leave my house,
You're unwelcome.
Leave the rope & iron.
Tell the king
To go **** off,
Lest he would rather violence.
Hard to find good honest work,
When of royal or noble;
Hard to find good honest work
If they claim you're not loyal!
Leave my home,
Go on get out.
Leave my house,
You're unwelcome.
Tell the king
To go **** off,
And kindly don't respond.
Feb 12, 2025
Feb 12, 2025 at 7:07 PM UTC
I had dreamed of gentle hills who cloaked themselves
in emerald green, swathed in capes of moss
and bejeweled by Time with tumbled stone.
Sitting in a high window looking east,
Over damascene forests crowding,
I saw the waves hurl themselves on rocky shores
where hopeful pilgrims and adventurers
once landed, timorous at first
their linear minds and loud weapons braced
for battle with those who watched
from under shade of guarded forest.
I knew their history now, how they grew bold
and mowed down the ancients, wrecking paradise
until, for a time, it resembled the land they'd fled.
Decades rolled past with the confidence of the victor,
his rewriting of progress and the careless tramping
of feet, horses and railroads over human souls.
At last, what was forged by the invaders
became brief peace and prosperity for a time,
but descended into dictators and their subjects,
and people were mesmerized by moving pictures,
their brains turned to porridge with radio waves.
lulled by sweet, starry-eyed promises from the rich.
The chance of revolution has weakened
to the point of desperation.
La resistance lies in shadow, like a lion crouching
waiting for people to awaken, for the **** that frees.
Dec 11, 2024
Dec 11, 2024 at 6:12 PM UTC
With soft hushed slip-steps
They creep into my being
My sleepy mind preps
For all the things I’m seeing
They are the sleep sneakers
That invade in the night
Restlessness seekers
That dance without the light
The tales of dreary dreams
Show terror, fear or love
But Sleep sneakers seem
To form fit like a glove
There is no themed story
The meanings are unclear
There’s doubt without glory
Just a gnawing fear
Tonight there in my mind
As I settle in my bed
Those sleep sneakers may find
Dreams hidden in my head
Aug 11, 2022
Aug 11, 2022 at 10:05 PM UTC
From the ashes and dust
We rise again
Bearing the scars of death
As we count our lost
From the bones and graves around
Many have fallen
And the sword is red
We march through the village square
Bearing more corpses
Looking for a place to rest
From the raging sword of the invaders
We seek the face of the gods
Why do we dance on their graves?
Like masquerades in the village square
The kings come from afar
And we take them to the shrine
The invaders helped us built
And none shed a tear…
None raised a wail…
And none grieved
Because it’s not their lost
They said we wail too much
For the lost was small
A tiny drop in the ocean of blood
That has flooded the land
Our contribution was small…yes, small contribution
Or how else could we justify this ceaseless carnage?
So they took more
More women…more children
More boys…more girls
Some pregnant…some suckling
A sacrifice to make up for the rest
We thought our shrine was big enough
To pacify the gods and save their wrath
But we were wrong
Their white regalia is not red enough
The blood is not deep enough for a swim
But why desire blood as one seeks for water in the desert
Oh sword! When will you rest?
The king is coming
Maybe he will see the mountains of graves
And the waiting dead—candidates for mass burial
Maybe he will say it is enough
And the priest can take the blood
And pour on the altar of the gods
So the living can rest
And the land will know peace
And the sword be no more red
May the gods be pacified
This sacrifice is enough
Jan 14, 2021
Jan 14, 2021 at 9:35 PM UTC
we have no fins
yet are drawn to the sea
we have no wings
and yet take to the skies
not content to be where
evolution put us
we invade worlds
where we don’t belong
without understanding
the one we were granted
Jul 18, 2020
Jul 18, 2020 at 7:43 AM UTC
They exploited our traditions,
Divided us on caste lines,
We never wanted those renditions,
They did the dreadful partitions.
The second one was on the map,
Immediate bloodshed had hap,
People woke up from a nap,
They woke up to a gap.
The repercussions’re not eternal,
Time healed the physical wounds,
They somehow got over with it,
Yeah, we moved on over it.
We can’t forget how Sindh was ours,
How the entire Kashmir was ours,
But that was before they came,
Pouring down the mountains like an evil scourge.
Aug 27, 2019
Aug 27, 2019 at 1:47 PM UTC
Gray blur in my periphery
Imagination or something real?
Mystery solved within the hour
2nd gray form traveling far
Home no longer sacrosanct refuge
Peace and relaxation a distant concept
Startled shrieks upon their bold forays
Pervasive worry over their next sortie
Fearful defense setting full of trepidation
Will my fingers or their necks be snapped?
Is electrocution—more humane?
Or are they too obese to fit in the tunnel?
How long will this battle perpetuate?
Will the small hordes or large singularity win?
Will peaceful repose ever be possible again?
Or always interrupted by rustling, shrieks, and blurs?
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 1:59 PM UTC
Hut, two, three, four
What do you think you are fighting for?
Four, five, six, seven
Invasion is the path to heaven.
Seven, eight, nine, ten
If it doesn’t work, do it again.
Six, seven, eight, nine
If innocents die too, never mind.
We need to clean things
Wipe lessers out of the place.
They’re a total threat and
Weaken our beloved race.
We don’t have time
For anyone sick or poor
We must go somewhere
And fight unreasonable war.
Helping the weak and sick
Costs too much money to allow.
Besides, there are among us
Suffering rich people right now.
This land owes it all to the rich
So, we must do all we can
To support them with each pitch.
So, hut, two, three, four,
Now you know what we’re fighting for.
Three, four, five, six
Now, none of your liberal tricks.
Five, six, seven, eight.
Don’t question your betters, that’d be great.
Hut, two, three, four
We are who you are fighting for!
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 5:41 PM UTC
Yesterday is much clearer
As the future is drawing nearer.
The histories we have rehearsed
Over time have become reversed.
It should make us very sad;
What was good has become bad.
The bad guys were the Indians
And the good guys Caucasians
And they were always right
Because they were always white.
The Red Man was a villain
Because he was an Indian;
And that was never corrected.
The name an invader selected.
These were people born here
Defending land they held dear
Because they had hunted
And were never really wanted.
The invaders called them savage
Their women okay to ravage
Because they didn’t have Jehovah
To issue them a binding mitzvah.
There were so few invaders
So at first they were persuaders.
But after putting out some feelers
They chose to become stealers.
They declared the natives sinners
And thus became the winners.
The natives hadn’t learned to read
So the invaders ignored all their needs.
The invaders were prepared to fight
To deny the natives their rights
So, the invaders created paper laws
Thus natives couldn’t tell what they saw.
Suddenly the noble savage was a crook.
The invaders gloated over what they took;
Stole native’s possessions from their hands
And declared it all as the invader’s land.
This is the Danes and Angles back when
And the story happened all over again.
But once the battle victory is scored
The native’s birthright is not restored.
The invaders cover up the tragedies
With inaccurate tales and call them history.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 5:42 AM UTC