Thursday, October 8, 2009

Yes You

Yes you, dear General.
With a simple movement of your breath
A million men marched to their death.

While you kept bundled in warm clothes
On muddy roads they stumbled, they froze.
While you slept warm in comfort bound
In black waters they struggled, they drowned.

So, though you've conquered bits of foreign soils,
Who sings of the Soldier now in that ground?
I say, to the Poet belong the spoils.


Yes you, dear Doctor.
Much power from our health derives
You play at God by 'saving' lives.

While you took drugs to them denied
In darkened rooms they begged for more, they cried.
While your plans for a future were laid
In pain and fear they knew the price, they paid.

So though you have profited from snake oils,
Who sings of the Patient now in that shade?
I say, to the Poet belong the spoils.


Yes you, dear Priest.
When you for God were allowed to speak
You preyed upon the sick and weak.

While you sermonized of flaming coals
In confessionals they lost their faith, their souls.
While you promised eternal life and saving grace
They saw that doubt, in your eyes, on your face.

So though you've claimed escape from serpent's coils
Who sings of the Life now in this place?
I say, to the Poet belong the spoils.

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