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William Zanzinger killed poor Hattie Carroll
With a cane that he twirled around his diamond ring finger
At a Baltimore hotel society gath'rin'
And the cops were called in and his weapon took from him
As they rode him in custody down to the station
And booked William Zanzinger for first-degree ******
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears
Take the rag away from your face
Now ain't the time for your tears

William Zanzinger, who at twenty-four years
Owns a tobacco farm of six hundred acres
With rich wealthy parents who provide and protect him
And high office relations in the politics of Maryland
Reacted to his deed with a shrug of his shoulders
And swear words and sneering, and his tongue it was snarling
In a matter of minutes on bail was out walking  
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears
Take the rag away from your face
Now ain't the time for your tears

Hattie Carroll was a maid of the kitchen
She was fifty-one years old and gave birth to ten children
Who carried the dishes and took out the garbage
And never sat once at the head of the table
And didn't even talk to the people at the table
Who just cleaned up all the food from the table
And emptied the ashtrays on a whole other level
Got killed by a blow, lay slain by a cane
That sailed through the air and came down through the room
Doomed and determined to destroy all the gentle
And she never done nothing to William Zanzinger
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears
Take the rag away from your face
Now ain't the time for your tears

In the courtroom of honor, the judge pounded his gavel
To show that all's equal and that the courts are on the level
And that the strings in the books ain't pulled and persuaded
And that even the nobles get properly handled
Once that the cops have chased after and caught 'em
And that the ladder of the law has no top and no bottom
Stared at the person who killed for no reason
Who just happened to be feelin' that way without warnin'
And he spoke through his cloak, most deep and distinguished
And handed out strongly, for penalty and repentance
William Zanzinger with a six-month sentence
Oh, but you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears
Bury the rag deep in your face
For now's the time for your tears
Kitt Jul 2017
A baby clutches his mother’s dress
Unaware of how it will save his life
Unwary of the saving grace that will come to rest
The child is soft and clean
His name is Eugenius, the second of three
After Richard, before Michal
He is just a babe, no bigger than an infant can be

A toddler clutches his mother’s dress, the hem
Unaware of tragedy
Unwary of the Horror that awaits him
The child is frightened and shaking
His name is Gene, the second of three
After Richard, before Michal
He is just a little one, no taller than Mama’s knee

A child clutches his mother’s hand
Unaware from behind her skirt as they are herded
Unwary of the disaster to come from the cart
His name is Genie, the second of three
Before Mikey, after Richie
He is just a child, no higher than Tata’s knee

A boy holds his brother’s hand tight
Unaware of the danger he is in
Unwary that the coin from Mama’s skirts will save his life
The boy is healthy and strong, though not for long
His name is Gene, the second of three
Before Michal, after Richard
He is naïve, but soon to grow up prematurely

A prisoner holds his own shirt, unsure
Unaware of the pain that is coming
Unwary that he shall walk away nevermore
The prisoner is hurting and ******
His name is “Gefangene,” the second of two
After Richard, before the crimson mess
He is crying for a ****** towel carried by

A handicap clutches Mama’s leg
Aware that he cannot cry as she shuffles him out
Wary that outside her skirts is the hunt
The handicap is hurting so badly
His name is Gene, the second of three
After Richard, before the new bump
He is unwilling to believe

A kaleka holds tight to his brother’s back
Aware that he is a burden
Wary that he is a load
The kaleka is waiting, waiting.
His name is Gene, second of three
After Richard, before Theresa
The kaleka is ready for release

The dziecko holds again to Mama’s skirt
Aware that he is now free to leave
Wary that he will never be independent
The dziecko is elated and mourning
His name is Gene, the second of three
Before Theresa, after Richard
The dziecko will never be the same

Sixty five years later
Gene holds Rosie’s hand tight
Aware that he is old now, having lived fully
Wary that death is imminent at last
The great-grandfather is peaceful and content
His name is Tata, Grandpa, Gene, husband, and more
He is the last one left of his war
The survivor is ready to reunite with his family
He gives thanks to Hattie’s skirts
That kept him alive though the hurts.
Eugeneus Borowski is my great-grandfather, a child Holocaust victim. This piece is currently featured in the World War II poetry unit in the syllabus of a literature course offered through Northern Essex Community College. The only surviving first-hand account of Gene’s experience is a cassette tape of an interview he gave many years ago.
Morgan Ella Jan 2011
Once upon a midnight, dreary,

Top Hattie twinkles, lipstick smeary,

...spinning girls like Mischief Managed all glittery on the ball room floor,

I was taken, most completely.

...Batting lashes indiscreetly.

D'lilac lips that pouted sweetly, a Circus Girl that knew the score.

I pinched myself, could i be dreaming?

Of this Nymph, this Empress gleaming?

was her Diva charm misleading? Shoe Addicted Troubadour.

A Siren in Styletto thrilled me,

Abracadabra wish fulfilled me,

......Medusa eyes that drew, yet stilled me- Retro-Futuristic roar.

Like an Airborn Unicorn descending,

advanced upon me unpretending.

my heart of Dragon Scales extending for this Cupcake Thief I'd cover for.

"Mirror Mirror" she whispered, smirking.

Countessa Fluorescent had caught me lurking,

and sent my Great Pink Planet jerking, Cosmopopping, Centrifuchia war.

My Beautiful Rocket was set to swinging,

No She Didn't hear the ringing

in my ears the Twilight singing, to the Limest Criminal on the floor.
Geno Cattouse Nov 2012
Hattie
Came slowly.
She was sullen and strong as
She crossed the carribbean shrouded in gray.
The warning was short as we battened down tight.
A blustery,piercing howling beast.
Mighty trees knelt down.
Souls washed away.
Hattie shook
Rattled
Rolled.
That
Day.
harlee kae Feb 2014
Back before anyone knew
there was something between me and you.
It was a secret kept,
for just us two.
I would hold your hand, given the chance,
And no one gave us a secod glance.
They didn't think it was strange or queer
That when you were around, I was near.
You weren't filled with anger.
I wasn't filled with hate.
And march the 12th wasn't even an important date.
Back then was the time that you and hattie were the best of friends,
And sleepovers weren't questioned with "i don't know... depends"
Now my life is different.
Your life is different too.
I really miss the time when it was only me and you.
Connor Veach Feb 2017
Harambe the inquisitive Self
Harambe the mangy dog
Harambe the broken Spirit
Harambe whose bones are my altar, scepter
Harambe who in his jailhouse did rock
Harambe whose name is communal labor
Harambe who stared into clear blank eyes and intuited the nature of the Soul
Harambe because Blake
Harambe because Hattie Carroll
Harambe because Truth in unintelligible letters, bleak
Harambe because ******* bullets pointed your way
Harambe because Et tu, Brute?

Harambe who constructed mental labyrinths out of paradise
Harambe who was half divine
Harambe who was half Man
Harambe who was full Anima Mundi
Harambe who was aped by the lollygagging necks and stiff roboticism of the masses
Harambe who was memed within an inch of his exhumed life
Harambe who was politicized
Harambe who was poeticized, needlessly

Harambe who stared down a Cincinnati sunrise just once upon arrival
Harambe who could not take it
Harambe who stayed inside all day
Harambe who was struck by the immensity of small broken objects (especially children)
Harambe who could not fathom my poetry, but wrote it all the same
Harambe who did not die in vain
Harambe whose voice will never taste his country
Harambe who no amount of ***** held out will return his stagnant soul to his body again
lonesome doesn't move, it clings
to time-tapered tree limbs,
to grey
sidewalks refreshed with a white snow,
and to the blood red brick walls overlooking them,
but not overlooking what went
past, no, not overlooking what passed as a life,
a life that went speeding past them,
with no quiet moments to take a breath
or to sit within them;

the past didn't go
the way she wanted it, the way
we'll see it, not the way
the blood red brick walls wanted to feel it,

but the bricks hold it, with tree limbs,
with walks, and they hold her,
and they offer her, still lonesome,
Hattie, stilled by blood, here to me,

and she comes to me, no, not her,
but the thought of her still blood, and when I take her,
or the thought of her, I take it
away, a little of our lonesomeness, the blood
Mike Hauser May 2014
I woke up this morning in a Bob Dylan song
Wasn't quite sure of where I was
All along the watch tower or somewhere there about
I'm kind of wondering at the cause

I watched as William Zanzinger beat down Hattie Carroll
Knew something about this must be done
It's hard for your feet to catch traction when they're not on the ground
Floating inside of a Dylan song

I must have looked both dazed and confused
With a case of the Subterranean Homesick Blues
But I figure I'm going to change my way of thinking
As I hold out for Winterlude

That night I hooked up with the Jack of Hearts
With Lilly and Rosemary both by his side
Must have had something up his sleeve for certain
Cause all he did was stand in the corner and smile

The big girl now standing next to me said
Your going to make me lonesome when you leave this song
At that she cried buckets of rain
In the shelter of the storm

And all of this happened this morning
When I woke up in a Bob Dylan song
A tad bit bored with my writing lately... trying new things
b e mccomb Jun 2023
i check the obits
every monday

and i see them pass
in the slow progression
of time and life
and death

gina used to get
four pounds of ***** dark
every two weeks
and we made
sure it was
pre-ground for her

i never met
her husband
but their names were only
a couple entries apart

a man named kevin
passed and it
bothers me that
i can’t tell you
his order but i could
recognize his face

clarence used to
lean on the
counter and try to
hit on me
stinking up the store
unwashed and drunk
until he got too incoherent
to understand and
i caught him slip
a pint in his back pocket

but his obit
gave me perspective
of what addiction
can take away

mary passed
i don't know the details
all i know is that
i miss waving
to her early
in the morning
dew still on
her flowers
and i worry about
john and hattie
but i haven't
seen them around

and estelle's dad died
i thought it must be
tragic and
unexpected but
al said that cynthia came
into the store the day
after it happened and
behaved really strangely
(not saying that something
was up but she sure
didn't act like a fresh widow
normally acts)

amy died
"unexpectedly"
last november
but anyone who
sold her liquor
saw it coming
for years
on the horizon

i’d be lying if
i said there weren't
names i was
looking for
names i know
i'll see someday

but yesterday
was someone
i didn't know

she was exactly
one day younger
than me
married nine months
after i got married
just graduated
nursing school
she and her husband
had a house and
two dogs and a cat
and a life
looking foward

and she
lost her battle
with depression

it was like
reading
my own
obituary

and i cried
for a stranger

johnny mandel
was a **** liar
suicide isn't painless
it's a pan of hot oil
that splatters
and spits
and burns everyone
who gets near it

my browser history
reminds me how
often i look at
my cousin's obituary

the obituary says
"unexpectedly"
but word in the family was
she met a guy online
and it was a weird
double suicide
where they found both bodies
in a parked car
somewhere in
canada

she was a year
older than me
lived to be nineteen
a year longer than her
older sister who
died "unexpectedly"

burning hot oil
overflows
saturates
through a family tree
until you put
a match to it

why is it unexpected
couldn't somebody
have seen it coming?
but maybe there were no signs

the grief i experience from
reading the obits
is disproportionate
out of control
makes me hopeless
and scared
add it to my tick list
of things i cry on the bus about

but i have to do it
i have to know

i know that life
is fragile and
time is unjust and
death is the meanest
neighbor of all
and i'm just clutching
desperately to
stay in control

by checking the obits
every monday morning
copyright 6/6/23 by b. e. mccomb
Charles Sturies Sep 2017
Maggie Murch
Thought she had to lurch,
go back to church
and flirt.
Her feet weren't
right on the turn
of the firm
of the win
that would burn
Maggie Murch,
I've got to learn.
Oh Maggie
go back to the baggie
and sacky
and stop making me be your lackey.
That's, in my opinion, tacky.
She'll probably, behind my back, call me fatty.
Yeah lachte
But no, you're not like all that, or catty
and yeah you probably got a black friend named Hattie
I'll see you Saturday
and drop the name Mattie
1- a friend of a friend

Charles Sturies
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
so much for view counts...
when... you find... more pleasure...
sieving 2 tonnes of soil...
than... writing your abysmal best...
for some...
competition...
with... wait... who's in charge?
of the poetryfoundation.org?
well... old news...
willard bunn III...
    henry bienen... "resigned"...
oh now i'll be watching...
gone with the wind...
like some ******* secret a-class
*****... like some: ******...
like... requiem for a dream...
             like caligula in the face:
malcolm mcdowell...
i never liked: gone with the wind...
more a ben-hur fan...
barbara! oh... barbra: streisand! oosh!
and effect...
i'll be watching gone with
the wind till the wind don't take me
but lazy thames: might...
**** it... gone with the wind
marathon... one movie x 4...
will probably equal...
the whole harry potter and twilight saga...
well i don't think it's funny...
given... Hattie McDaniel...
nigh-eerie-***** was an uncle tom
after all... h'along...
didn't work 'ard anough!
cots the cradle and cotton the *******
spinning "oops"...
                    about time to stop caring...
i cared once...
bash up: prop'ah punk limbo...
   and the youth can read
the same trash elsewhere
on brick walls and their grafitti hierogylphics..
not mine...
oh sure... well... the movie film critics
were always...
not-circumcised ******...
hard to match up to a pleasing
palette of the aesthetically pleasing: prunes:
last sauced... for the edible...
   coz danzig and world war two
vil alwayz be like: whatz-everz...
             cotton picked: no coal mine: mined...
the slam dunk!
leave that to the slavs:
the albino nigh: oh gee...
no carry bone-ant-and-bean-pop do...
  paid for nothing:
kamikaze!
Cedric McClester Jun 2020
By: Cedric McClester

Even though Gone With The Wind
Has been taken off  HBO cable
He’s always been ready
Willing and able
To have a few ******
Sit at his table
Playing Hattie McDaniells
To  his Clark Gable

Though there are no
Ifs, buts or maybes
They don’t know nuthin’
‘Bout birthin no  babies
No more than a family dog
Getting rabies
Or their proud history
Along the Euphrates

They sing his praises
Like a shepherd's lamb
But frankly my dear
He don’t give a ****
The whole thing is nothing
More than a scam
Cuz after the photo op
They’re told to scram

There have always been
Those who love being used
In order to say things
That other refuse
But that probably isn’t
Any new news
Some will do anything
Just to shmooze






Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2020.  All rights reserved.

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