Rage Rap
I'm a man alive,Nearly sixty-five,
I've seen an awful lot,
The skulls of Pol Pot,
The Bay of Pigs,
Puskin on Aeroflot,
Mick Jagger's lips,
Churchill's death,
Thatcher's birth,
Kennedy's last breath,
Jackson's 'Earth',
Man's giant leap,
Women's equal pay,
Costeau in the deep,
Attenborough at play,
And you know what?
So what, so what.
I know of them,
I know of them,
But living or dead
They don't know me,
Don't know who I am,
Here in a logjam
Of history, of history.
I am history in the making,
My boiling bones are shaking,
I'm energised, energised
At nearly sixty-five
To be angry at... myself...
For being on the shelf
Of smug indifference.
You see, I come home
And take off my shoes,
Pour wine into my goblet of chrome
And watch the evening news,
First, the horrible hysteria
In sad, sad Syria,
The daily bombing of Aleppo,
The skeletal ghetto that
Sounds like 'A leper',
And I rage at the screen:
'What can I do about it!'
I calm down a bit...
Then I gape
At a report of a rape
Of a schoolgirl in Oxford
In broad daylight
In a busy road,
O consider her plight
O consider her night
And pray to the Lord,
Just pray to the Lord...
... and I rage at the screen:
'What can I do about it!'
I settle down a bit...
Until the scenes of a
Dead tiger in Java,
Killed for its medicinal
Properties by primeval
Hunters who believe
That a dapple a day
Keeps the wrinkles at bay,
And I say, and I say:
'What can I do about it!'
And I answer myself:
From tomorrow you
Go out and love
Everything you see...
And don't turn on the TV.
Poetry by Christopher Fernie
Read 684 times
Written on 2016-10-03 at 00:51
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