Getting Old
In the parlance of the times we goLike gray birds in the light pecking for crumbs they throw
From high atop the towers crowned with pentagram and cross
Upside down ploughing through the muck waiting for a tossS
So much for silver so much for gold
Walls of Streets sell Bombs for Wars so
Wear your masks take your shots do what you're told
One thinks one would have learned by now
How to rise above the rust and mold
But the bloody calf's a sacred cow or sow
Devouring us all
Does it never get old ?
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 364 times
Written on 2021-03-01 at 14:41
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text