"protestors" poems
No, no, I haven’t been doing this myself,
but I live in Cambodia,
and 2 guys and a girl were deported recently
for riding around on a motorbike in the ****
in broad daylight. Actually, you see,
naively or deliberately,
they rode right past a police station.
Now that must have been a sight for sore eyes.
So the police set out in hot pursuit,
rubbing their sore eyes, or whatever they rub,
maybe their truncheons, eh?
And when the perps were pulled over,
the cops didn’t fall about with hilarity
when these riders said quite calmly
that they were going to pick up their laundry.
Truly! They were backpackers! As if that explained it.
But publicly, the cops said nope,
these perps are obscene to be seen like this
and they violate Khmer customs and culture.
The cops even took pictures of this outrageous obscenity.
Indeed. The riders' rapture of being bare assed
and naked and **** free is not for Cambodia.
Certainly not at this juncture.
So their capture resulted in them being deported,
never to show hide nor hair in the country again.
Just goes to show...
But you can get away with ****** here,
particularly shooting union leaders or critics or protestors,
or you can throw a grenade into the opposition,
and **** a few right there. Those killers go free.
It's probably dangerous to speak openly,
but I don't think these guys read poetry.
They're probably busy oiling their artillery,
and even rocket launchers, as the PM
threatened to use against the opposition recently.
Seriously.
They're on the lookout for dissenters here.
Oh yes. And bare ***** Obviously.
So watch you **** in Cambodia,
especially if it's bare on a bike.
And ssshhh! Watch out for your mouth.
You need to cover your mouth up properly, too.
Mike T Minehan
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 5:01 AM UTC
thinking about how cops are beating protestors senseless not even 20 minutes from where i live.
thinking about how they block off the streets and stand unmasked, batons in hand, other hand resting pointedly on their gun.
thinking about how it could be me next— another unspecified black face and black body and black existence snuffed out— a hashtag, a mural.
(and those are the lucky ones.)
thinking about how a memorial is the best case scenario for a black life.
thinking about the bodies in the street.
thinking about blood splattering the ground, mixing with paint and obscuring the “black lives matter” lettering on the road.
thinking about the chalk art and loud music in a neighborhood soon-to-be-gentrified.
thinking about how we’ve grown used to the stench of rotting flesh outside our doors.
thinking about the taste of blood in my mouth from my nearly-severed tongue i didn’t realize i was biting.
thinking about the tension in my neck and jaw.
thinking about the way my eyes never seem to close.
thinking about the eyes that will never again open.
thinking thinking thinking.
Sep 27, 2020
Sep 27, 2020 at 4:27 PM UTC
Fingernails dug out of steering wheel
in the out door, not enough gin to ****
50 pushups. 50 more. Change my body
Maybe you won't ignore
Ambien, the lull of the ceiling fan,
the crowds of protestors disband --
the blanket warm, cosmos tease and can,
malaise, malaise, I'm trying to be active
and sane, sane for the next promise ring holder
and wine cooler queen, here comes the switch:
ether.
The night brings me back to you
by way of illusion --
you've got lingerie
I've got needs
You've got teeth
I've got shoulder blades
so it begins,
white knuckle, culling songs, strain on scalp --
I sing along, ancient melody, satin dirge --
precursor to your soliloquy and black venom urge
to scatter this bandaged man--
pieces in your hand,
collected and left on 100 dressers
for ill-informed future connivers
conspire
but I'm only tired of trying not
to look like a liar
so I blend into your blood
satisfied smirk from
transparent you
but what is the future
--a present hope
but what is the past
--a present memory
so we abolish each other now
betting on tangible mirages
in this delicious, miraculous night
the stars align
the planets collide
not an inch of you goes unkissed
not an inch of me goes without an itch
blackness and breath swirl and spit
me into a confetti end time without prophet or priest
only a skinny seed, and then the switch:
wake with a present hope of getting over
my present memory.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 5:37 PM UTC
This town is too small for secrets
The sidewalks are adorned with names and dates
Of couples whose love dissolved twenty years ago
While moss oozes out of the letters.
This town is too small for secrets
Through windows at night
The citizens play out their dollhouse lives
And dysfunction is locked away in grandmother’s armoire.
This town is too small for secrets
Where bars close at seven in the morning and open an hour later
And the tenders are purveyors of free psychiatry
Who put advice in bowls between stale peanuts
And place them on the counter.
This town is too small for secrets
Every hour the two churches compete for the loudest bells
But the protestant one always wins
And the Catholics having mass ignore its pleading voice
But whisper politely in each other’s ears
About the scandalous protestors out on Main.
This town is too small for secrets
With its coffee shops littered with youth
Who deny their wealth through coffee steam
And discuss the state of countries they can’t place on a map
And slowly leach out in to the frigid rain
Back to new cars and million-dollar homes
Where daddy pays the bills.
This town is too small for secrets
The college students drink their scholarships in red plastic cups
And scuttle towards their shared flats
Collapse in to bed too tired to sleep
Stare at the ceiling and wonder why they didn’t transfer
Three semesters ago.
This town is too small for secrets
With its gated communities of retirees
Where the homes are manufactured
And the walls papered with the smiling faces of clean-cut grandchildren
And the rebellious ones packed away
From the neighborhood gossip’s prying eyes.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
We don’t get to pick our family
Or the country in which we’re born
Most families are quite imperfect
High praise will seldom adorn
Our country acts as, in absence of,
A national family
We’ve come together as mighty fist
To overcome tragedy
Just as you have complained about;
The faults of sister and brother;
The arbitrary dad’s imperfect justice;
The imperfectly care-worn mother
So it is with the family national
Not every behavior good
Complaints and suggestions are rational
Don’t banish before understood
One’s right to protest what isn’t good
For the national family
A founding right that’s understood
Wherever that protest be
Some family members are not all good
Most not prone to riot
Some bring dirt to the nation’s house
While others stay, clean, and quiet
If you demand “protestors leave”
You fail to understand
There’s no place to go but home
And clean the dirt that demands
National attention not just blind scorn
Your so self-righteous display
You can help with hearts reborn
To clean or get out of the way
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
The hatred towards the government,
Implemented by the opposition,
Practiced by the citizen,
And now, it is like a tradition,
From generation to generation,
From provocation to demonstration,
Taking it to the street is the habitation,
Screaming and shouting for no reason,
A battalion of protestors controlled by politician,
A never ending fight between transformation and reformation,
To rule the country and win the election,
To make it to Putrajaya, that's the mission,
To make confusion is the only conclusion,
And making politics a priority than religion,
These corrupted people ruined our nation,
With their twisted tongue and telling facts that are fiction,
Telling lies to the people has become an addiction,
Spreading ideology with their sweet persuasion,
And influence a generation that's lacking in patience,
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 6:23 AM UTC
In my world,
we aren’t allowed to love men if we’re women,
In my world,
we aren’t allowed to love women if we’re men.
It used to be that it was wrong for men to love men,
or women to love women,
It used to be frowned upon for them to get married,
the way we do so often.
“God created Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve,”
protestors used to claim.
But according to their beliefs,
God created everyone the same.
I couldn’t imagine waking up without the love of my life,
next to me every day,
Her warm arms wrapped around me;
our bodies lying in a tangled array.
My brother couldn’t imagine waking up without the love of his life,
next to him every morning,
Or going to sleep without him,
for without his husband he is nothing.
Plato said that Zeus struck the humans with four arms and four legs,
with two hearts and two faces,
For he feared their power and condemned them
to search for their soul mates embraces.
If Plato is right and we are split into two halves
why did they used to think it meant opposite sexes?
If in mitosis a cell produces an exact copy of itself
why didn’t they think it meant same sexes?
But perhaps it is wrong for us to conclude
that heterosexuality is so unacceptable,
If now we think it is so ridiculous
that homosexuality used to be considered terrible.
r.f.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 8:42 PM UTC
And he's provocative, a provocateur, a beacon of free speech and foul speech and vague speech and pointed speech, pacing the Conference Room Alamo on the ground floor of the Hilton, testing his lapel mike, asking the crowd of eighty, ninety to move to the front rows, and he mouths something to the photographer, a dreadlock'd skin and bones white boy, and the photographer flanks the crowd, angling the shot to solidify the intended narrative: he is a provocateur, a popular provocateur, a staunch opponent of political correctness (which this bystander must note strangely equates to a champion of hate speech), a former poster child for the alt-right, but—and quoting here—he says, "I cannot be pigeonholed," and perhaps that's it, the secret to his former success, his viral, shapeless nature, a terrorist of language and persona, and perhaps that's it, the secret to his demise, his shape forming, his identity emerging from the podcast ghettos and GOP speaking gigs, and he's on the stage and he's in all white and this is intentional, this is the redemption tour, the other-side tour, and the crowd claps now as he pumps his arms (at this point in the presentation they used to shout, I should point out), and he calls Hillary Clinton "Satan's ingrown **** hair," and the men in the audience laugh and pant and cough, and he spends fifteen minutes on fake news and hit pieces and the nuance of video editing and how liberal snowflakes won't stop protesting his appearances (for clarity here, there were no protestors at this event), and he wraps everything rather quickly (especially for the $150 ticket price) and says he has a minute for questions, and a young man, twenty-five or so, asks for tips on becoming the God King of Internet Trolls, and he, the popular provocateur, says, "Ah. The next generation is coming up from behind."
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 4:58 PM UTC
Cassandra,
I see you in the words
of Greta Thunberg:
Filled with passion, warnings, truth.
Not believed.
Cassandra,
I see you in the dreams
of Calpurnia;
warning Caesar, bloodied earth
Not believed.
Cassandra,
I see you in the protections
of Tony Stark;
made with fear, love
Not believed.
Did they tell you to smile more?
Ask you why you’ve “gotten involved”?
Did they belittle your prophecy,
Ignore warning after warning?
Ignore you?
Mad woman, hysterical.
You, angered Apollo
Or
Was he always angry?
Did he believe himself so worthy
of your love that he cursed
not having it?
I don’t know.
You probably told someone
We know how that would have ended,
Cassandra,
I see you in the testimonies
of Christine Blasey Ford,
so hurt, pained, strong.
Not believed.
Were you told to sit quietly, mind your place?
When you were attacked was it your body
She defended
Or
Her own desiccated image?
Maybe you told the trees of
Ajex’s sins, because even if
the men listened,
A statue protected him from justice.
Cassandra,
I see you in the words
of impassioned protestors
so bright, so young.
Not believed.
Maybe if you told them lies
they'd believe the truth.
Maybe if you told the truth
they'd believe the lies.
Believe anything you said.
Darling Cassandra
possible bride of Apollo.
definite belonging of King Agamemnon.
Did his children believe you?
Are you a warning to women?
Love who you are told to.
Bow to authority or
Never give up.
Are you a criticism of men?
Demanding of love.
Expecting subservience.
Justice not served.
Cassandra,
I see you in myself,
the pain they caused
the light going out
I am not believed.
Cassandra,
Does it get better?
Have you received the peace you so deserve?
Or are you still
Not believed.
Apr 9, 2020
Apr 9, 2020 at 9:01 PM UTC
“From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.”
–William Shakespeare (Prologue to Romeo and Juliet)
I was hewn from the helpless limbs of a tree
Which could have grown
To become something magnificent
Through sanding and carving
Through varnishing and the work of human hands
I was formed
In a way, the tree which was mutilated to give me life
Was a foreshadowing of my truncheon fate
I swing through the air once again
A weapon in the hands of a vehement oppressor
Skin splits
Blood sprays
Bone shatters
Bodies litter the dust
Staining the earth with crimson testament
To the cruelty I have wrought
Some of the figures are marred
Reminiscent of the tree from which I was hewn
Which died to give me life
The dark throng of protestors
Are but mortals
Faced by the immortal power
Of those lighter beings
Who wield me, mercilessly
I wish to weep
For the destruction, pain
Anguish I leave in my wake
I wish I was still a living bough
Capable of shedding resin tears
Capable of yielding to greater forces
Not to force the vulnerable to break
But I cannot weep
I cannot yield
I am a baton
A weapon in the hands of those who swore to protect
Yet scythe down those who rise to protect what is rightfully theirs
Ancient grudge of black and white
Break to new mutiny of segregation
Where civil blood of those who seek protection
Makes civil hands who swore to guard them
Unclean.
Jun 6, 2020
Jun 6, 2020 at 6:59 AM UTC
mostly undiagnosed ghosts host coast roasts
and no one shows
haunted wind blows going slow
dethroning grown men being sown
unknown gnomes debone stones
throwing plumbs at scrub jays
whilst listless fitness ****** insist
on resisting mystic visions
implicitly –
ragtag gag gifts for bags
smoking **** with saggy pants
chancing protagonists
and prancing fisters
wrist rocket **** pocket
time, clock it
rock it sock it
don’t mock
interlocking bicarbonates
wait for the ingrate to **********
and regulate the regurgitation –
****** ancestrally protestors
digest their disgust
discussing muskrats as lab cats
basking in the glow of white coats –
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
In line for the new roller coaster
was a group of ex-protestors
in cobbled monogamous flocks.
They squawked and squawked.
She warbled.
He wooed.
She swayed.
He swooned.
And she only had sunscreened her front.
Her back must've stung.
Bright red.
But I bet she reserves her best stories
for unreserved reservations in bed.
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 1:22 PM UTC
Forever home, this is where they shall stay,
for they have earned it, every little bit of rest,
from now until the Rapture's Day.
Sixteen years, they have waited, to find their purpose,
a higher calling, than themselves
a goal worth proving, to succeed or else.
They were not brainwashed,
they were not manipulated by government, nor subtle hints,
nor were they under the influence,
of any kind of notorious and idiotic advisement.
They chose this route,
the route tougher than nails,
and hotter than Hell itself.
The way of the warrior.
To fight and defend,
to see victory as another day to live,
to assure freedom, shall never bend.
They who fought, with each breath,
hot and heavy bead of sweat,
gritted and ground teeth,
every broken and discolored nail.
They stood ready.
They stood.
They held their ground.
Securing our flanks, so that our enemy could not surround.
Now they rest,
as they well should,
if only they were treated the utmost respect,
as all man could.
Westburro Baptist Church, one of several protestors
against our dead, could you not leave us alone,
to our own morning instead?
You're arrogance has become your undoing,
it will be your end that the end of days shall be cluing!
Rest easy, warrior, as your brothers stand united,
rolling thunder, coming through,
rest easy, in the cool soft earth, dug out...just for you.
Rest easy, warrior, heart of the brave.
You have won the battle, and into an early grave.
You who gave all, we salute you once more,
we'll hear you laughing, as you toss the devils in Hell,
but we all know, you're just keeping safe,
our Heaven's door.
Now rest easy, At Ease, Marine, Poolie, Army, Navy, Airforce, and All.
You have given your answer to a crying call.
Rest easy, oh friend of mine, as I let the rainfall this sunny day,
rest easy, rest, as you may.
For you are now, forever home,
forever care-free, of being rich or poor,
forever resting,
forever more.
Oorah.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC
Bell bottom hip huggers
And my Frankenstein shoes
That had stack soles and heels
That I could only barely use.
A crop-top sleeveless tee shirt
With a superman emblem on it
And diamond ring on my hand.
In case I might have to pawn it.
Because we were picketing
Downtown at the City Hall
And at some police stations.
It was the seventies after all.
Our parents raised us to acquiesce
It was their America they protected.
And it was just exactly this blindness
That we, en masse, all rejected.
We failed to understand them
The generations that came before
That prized prejudice and bias
And celebrated sending us to war.
We felt there was another way
To go about sweeping social change.
We saw beating and fire hosing
As nefarious and more than strange.
We got beaten ourselves and jailed
For just pointing injustice out to them
And watched our sit-ins and love-ins
Turned into scenes of ****** mayhem.
We heard them call us all criminals,
Long haired ******* was a favored taunt.
It seems we were entitled to our opinions
As long as we didn’t chose to flaunt.
It felt so very much like **** Germany
Including storm troopers and jack boots
And the local politicians were obviously
At least agreeing if not in cahoots
With the police in their fear of rebellion
And protecting their good paying jobs.
So, they beat us and vilified the students
Calling them ***** communists, and slobs.
And, yes, some of us were getting high
Back in our homes and apartments.
Sometimes it seemed the only way
We could deal with the estrangement
Between what our country said it was
And what it turned out it really was.
It was hard to realize our land wasn’t free
And there was no social Santa Claus.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 1:00 AM UTC
Space by space
Line by line
I look around and see....
Many shadows but no people
Many parties but no music
A dark sky with no stars or moon
I see shadows and no bodies
Running cars with no engines
As newspapers blow with no writing.
Am I dreaming is my thought
But still to find myself
Standing and looking
Seeing so much
With nothing going on.
The conversation I'm having
Seems to be very interesting
To only find out
I've been talking to myself.
(Ring ring), hello....no answer
With my palm to my ear
I start walking to the other side
It gets very dramatic as
I fight through a crowd of protestors
With no voices, hands, or signs.
I entered a store....
It had no door, no employees,
And no stock.
So I entered the restroom....
No toilet and no sink.
There happens to be a soda can
On the floor so I picked it up
Quenching with thirst....
I cracked the seal to find myself
In disappointment and anger....
EMPTY
I exited the dry store
Back into the parking lot
Now through the crowd
Back to where I started
To find myself stuck in my
Own mind that is also absent.
As I take one final look around....
Nothing
No people
No cars
No me
EMPTY
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 3:52 AM UTC
Deep beneath Park Avenue,
where protestors never tread,
The Sandhogs delve beneath
the earth laying new track bed.
In time to come commuter trains
from Grand Central to Penn
will take the tunnel they have dug
at a cost now of one dead.
A father and his only son,
both of a Sandhog line,
were excavating underground
and working overtime
when suddenly there was a roar
a shifting in the earth
Their two lives were in jeopardy
They ran for all their worth
The Dad survived, his son was crushed
beneath.the the earthen mound
Despite attempts at C.P.R.
A pulse could not be found.
They bore his body up the shaft
to the city that never sleeps.
Where his poor father, suddenly old,
a lonely vigil keeps.
Nov 18, 2011
Nov 18, 2011 at 8:13 PM UTC
The mothers all cry
For the last baby down.
The protestors try
but there is no one around.
They all yell from the streets
but they can't make a sound.
All you hear are the feet-pounding
hungry war hounds.
I doubt that there's been
a more dangerous foe.
When it's fear we're afraid of
our fear feeds it more.
When you're freedom's at risk
then that freedom must go.
It's a paradoxical, sick, un-winable war.
SO
SALUTE
Hey YOU!
Do you have a problem with that?
I can't HEAR YOU SOLDIER,
fall in or fall flat.
We support what your forefathers said you stood for,
But their words hold no weight anymore.
Now all is so quiet
on the western frontier.
The purveyors of "RIGHT"
a whole two hundred years.
We're the STRONGEST
the PROUDEST
WORLD'S BIGGEST cliche.
But never mind, even Rome
didn't fall in one day.
And still the mothers all cry for the last baby down.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 4:10 AM UTC
You can't preach about change and then do nothing about it.
You sit behind your TV's and watch as other people take the hit.
You can't help the lesser, 'cause neutrality only helps the oppressor.
How can you fight for the cause by following all the laws?
The battle will never be won while we're living under loaded gun.
Just because your fist is in the air doesn't mean you actually care.
We'll **** out the fake protestors and
replace them with the real go-getters.
Because we are the believers of another fate,
one that doesn't end in violence and hate.
Peace is always the answer, but justice comes first.
We've gotta get out of this country,
because the government's ******* cursed.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
I met a ****** today,
and no, she didn’t actually tell me.
She kept this tight and was
really shy and polite about it.
But I guessed, because, well,
she's passionate, and trembling on the brink,
like a strung bow, quivering to release,
and she's straining to please her father,
who has the highest standards,
and the rest of her family, who have the highest standards,
and she has the highest standards,
and she's trying to live up to these highest standards,
and her Khmer culture is conservative,
also with these highest moral standards.
Gee. There are so many high standards here,
except for politics and the ****** of protestors
in this country. They're a high standard of
retribution and execution, in the back of the head.
Yeah, culture can be cruel sometimes,
especially in Cambodia.
Anyway, this girl’s trying to keep it together
and, well, there’s so much I could teach her.
But, look. I’m not the one to give her advice,
or to point my finger, or anything else, here.
It’s called the journey of life.
She has to figure it out and fit in for herself, see?
But wow. She's really beautiful in this innocent way.
So maybe you'll forgive me, briefly,
when I think of toxophily, improperly,
not to mention other recreational activity.
But honestly, I like and respect her,
and I appreciate her integrity.
Although I wish that everyone
would just wish her to be happy
instead of all of this responsibility and respectability
stuff about morality and virginity.
And for those who try to keep her in purgatory,
well, I wonder about their own purity. Yeah.
Just a few thoughts on equality
or maybe jealousy or hypocrisy here.
But hey! She's twenty-two! It's her time to be free.
She can still have *** and be pure.
It's called love, see? Not necessarily matrimony.
And anyway, virginity's not for a committee,
this is her own destiny.
Love is the answer.
It's really simple. See?
Mike T Minehan
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 10:05 PM UTC
“There’s a museum of *** around the corner”
“A what?”
“A museum of ***
A lady hums a melody on the bus to Queens, I lean in and listen to her quietly, but don’t say a word.
Crowds choke avenues as protestors call out the police. The police surround them. The irony of being protected by the same force that destroys is not lost.
Rain puddles on the black cement, I notice how soft the yellow water is in contrast with the harsh taxis.
A stray glove sits lonely on the subway stairs, useless without its other half.
“This entire factory used to be covered in graffiti, the city keeps painting over the art”
A snotty waiter recommends watery wine that costs an arm and a leg, he snorts when I don’t tip.
At a flea market a lady assures me this moonstone will “cleanse me,” I lost it rushing off to midtown.
The lights twinkle like flecks of gold against black stone and I realize night is never night here.
My guy tells me he doesn’t like me in the city, I tell him I’ve never liked myself anyways.
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
Masked back-packing militants descend on DC.
The instigators' antics indicate true agitator's instincts. When the rest buy it, the best... riot ? Putin set the precedent by rootin' for the President. As for the protestors -- are they seeking to serve justice or just the Secret Service? Joined by thousands of patriot motorcyclists, the black-masked boast of hikers may be lost on a host of bikers. Hmmmm... the silent verve of our veteran friends proves that the violent serve wicked ends. The verge of silence may mean a surge of violence.
While snowflakes melt down, the state will clamp down as militants storm town. Eastern sages know: a mean Taoist turned teen Maoist may raise the base rating for race-baiting just to get a rise. Erasing a different face is not the same as facing a different race (and many of these mad Taoists seem a tad Maoist to me...) Opening the trunk, one forgets that elephants remember: when the mob rules, they rob mules. Democratic icons are stubborn things. Until the bandits are punished let's banish the pundits to the hinterlands of fake news.
It's inauguration time, Dumbo.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 8:24 PM UTC
She had bruises running up the back of her knees
They were from the beggars and losers clawing at her lying in the streets
She wore a corset to keep from falling apart
She used butter on her hands because her skin was made of bark
But she was soft
Soft spoken and kind
She was young, though her face was lined
She navigated her way around the mess of broken souls
She walked fast as if walking on hot coals
When she made it to the march she changed into black
The protestors proceeded avoiding every crack
In the road rode the army
On horses made of steel
They were called to stumble over those who were denied a last meal
On a dark street those dressed in black
Met the army, their horses shoes met pavement with a smack
She slid to the back of the line because she wasn't bullet proof
A sign slapped the side of her face, on it was written the truth
Though she was surrounded by tall men with top hats on their heads
For whatever reason with the first shot she lay dead
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 8:28 PM UTC
English seems not his native language
Destroying grammar and meaning
His ear to steve bannnon’s right-leaning
Propaganda’s ignorance offends
Denying evidence and logic
Tweets, “These leakers are disgusting!”
Dodging questions is your main project
“Is Truth already dead?” Time portends
The Beast In the Face of Evil says
Protestors get paid to protest
But the POTUS is wearing no clothes
Like a Preschool Playhouse Let’s pretend
“I’m President”, (straight from Chevy Chase),
“and you’re NOT you know."
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 1:41 PM UTC
My child doesn’t need to behave.
Yours can be consigned to a grave.
My child is a bully, and that’s OK
Yours shouldn’t be in public anyway!
My child should go to any school he wants
Others only if they don't choose to flaunt.
Too bad if yours suffers misery,
We whites will just re-write history.
We prefer blacks go away and roam
Because we won’t finance their home!
We point to ugly days like Attica
Then tell them to go back to Africa.
Don’t bother with a Freedom Bus!
Equal rights is only for us!
Interracial relationships sicken,
Just a case of the plot thickens!
None of this outrage would be true
If it was what whites get subjected to!
All that crap about White Supremacy
Has not one claim on legitimacy.
It’s totally wrong down to the ground,
Just an excuse to keep others down.
Criminalizing rights protestors
Is a social outrage altogether!
People at this stage in history
Still so unevolved is tragedy.
To even utter these hateful words
Are among the ugliest ever heard.
They only have themselves to blame
That they still remain the same.
It’s up to them to accept the challenge
And work to put mankind in balance!
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 9:30 AM UTC