Wartime Words

The tribe called jest at the queen’s bequest

Holding vaulted anger she keeps in her chest

The paralyzed prize of a fight supersized

Brings swarming bees pouring forth from the nest

The hero emerges, wild where he left

The forest outside of the town he has cleft

As the fight in the streets begins the surprise

The chaos is baked in the cake of the chef

Nonsense! Cries the wholly despised

With the bandits he keeps in the lair where he flies

With the facts being poisoned in folds advertised

Lost is the truth. There is nothing but lies.

And so rings the anthem

This song how it cries

It simply observes, it does not rely

On the truth which is quicksand

Or sooth which has no land

It only preserves the incentives to fly

-K.M. Ecke

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.