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A Lesson on Wars

The war in Rwanda;
It is Three Blind Mice and the Farmer’s Wife,
Killing strictly by a Machete or a Carver’s Knife.

The war in Uganda;
It is an epic Christian battle,
The Lord’s Resistance Army in Satan’s scuffle.

The war in Sudan;
It is basically a narcotic induced deed,
Thanks to stoned Rebels from the Janjaweed.

The war in Liberia;
It was a maddening fashion hitch,
Charles the Tailor left them in a bad stitch.

The war in Sri-Lanka;
It is full of wildlife identity dilemmas,
Tiger Rebels becoming lowlife Guerrillas.

The war in Iraq;
That's the American second-hand one,
A Hand-me-Down from father to son.

The war in Afghanistan;
It is a gloomy environmental crisis,
We watch as the ego fuelled Bush fire rises.

The World War by Hitler;
In came the Allies and two bombs did they deploy,
On Nagasaki Fat Man and on Hiroshima Little Boy.

*****30th January 2008*****

Just found this old poem lying somewhere and decided to share it

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I have not come here
To put back together
The Guinea fowl egg
That was broken on Her Majesty's sandals.

I am an Executioner.
The why and the how matters not,
It's the Who.

Those who in malice
Destroy good food in fits of pettiness
Then turn to mock the distended bellies
Of hungry children
Shall know no peace.

But today,
It is not scoffing egg breakers that vex me.

It is,
Those who in silence watched
While the dirty deed was done,
Unconcerned about hungry mouths,
Then proceeded to,
on the miscreants
behalf, plead for mercy,
It is they who stir my bile.

So may I not be blamed
When in swinging my blade
I, accidentally, chop off the heads
Of wailers who stand too close to the guilty.

The Executioner's job is urgent business
I have no time for the niceties
Of giving, those who loiter, final warnings.

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Bedtime Epiphany of a Pining Heart

Tonight,
I contemplated
On things that were and were not,
On why
Light retracts different, in your eyes,
Like rainbows randomly ricocheting
Off my intangible thoughts,
Spellbinding...

On why,
Words sound different, on your lips,
How you laugh,
How the sounds take a path,
Across infinite dreams,
Into all my incarnations,
Into all my iterations,
Into all...

Tonight,
I concluded
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God is My Barber

The sickness that made the Vulture bald
would have killed the Crow.

It is because
the gods are petty
and would not be questioned
about who they show favor to,
That Crows live to,
Squawk hysterically
At Vultures' misfortune.

We have come to understand, that,
when a petty god is your barber,
Crows, who can't afford a razor,
with their benevolent destinies,
will punctuate our precious peace
with their shameless snickering.

but
the Vulture
neither
pays any mind
nor
wages a war of words
with mockers and scoffers;
for the cure for baldness
is not found in the laughter of Crows...

*****April 4, 2017*****

http://morganes-photographe.deviantart.com/
My Second poem about Vultures. I really need to stop this...😂😂😂