We dropped a slow bomb on our own,
strayed toes across that party line.
Reaped harvest growing in the bones
and flesh of old and marginal lives.
Give speedy death to animals
Encaged five-sides and otherwise;
The poor worth less we cast aside
and watch the blood come through their skins.
In the dock, we stand accused
Of late ashamed for lust for sin.
How many strikes must a country make
before we're in?
rev. 7/11, 7/16/2002
©1994, 2002 Alan P. Scott. All rights reserved.
Last updated July 16, 2002.