Revised, as Ken suggested. Thanks, mate.
And you, dear reader, will shake
Your head, and mutter, “Damn!
Why won't he write about
Something else, as he once did?”
There are other things I could
Write about, much larger things.
The world warms. The planet
Dies, but death's uncertain, and
Some years off, while profits
And paychecks, and what we
Consider to be the essences of
Our lives, the homes too large,
Too far apart, the things we buy
Which must be brought to us
From thousands of miles away,
And our vehicles, tools and totems
At once, all would have to be taken
From us.
Our robot economy leaves us
Destitute, begging for jobs as
Servants of those who lay
Claim to the robots, which we
Made,
And mines and factories
Everywhere close. There are
Too many robots, not enough
People who make enough
Money for what they produce,
So their owners grow angrier.
One of these days, surely
Before the planet is baked,
All of those on it will be back
At war until millions are
Slaughtered, and, more
To the point, the robots
Are wreckage, and their
Former owners (the ones
Who've survived) will be
Guaranteed profits again.
Closer to home, in fact,
Just down the street, we
See boys on the sidewalk,
Murdered by boys, and by
Men in blue uniforms.
Nobody cares. There's
A gun show this weekend.
We all plan to go to buy
Tools and totems, which we
Will take home, and then
Use on our families or put
To our heads.
Yes, there's so much to write
About. Reader, you're right,
But I'll dream of that woman,
Instead.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 72 times
Written on 2016-01-02 at 15:04
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I'm Sorry
I know. I'll write about her again,And you, dear reader, will shake
Your head, and mutter, “Damn!
Why won't he write about
Something else, as he once did?”
There are other things I could
Write about, much larger things.
The world warms. The planet
Dies, but death's uncertain, and
Some years off, while profits
And paychecks, and what we
Consider to be the essences of
Our lives, the homes too large,
Too far apart, the things we buy
Which must be brought to us
From thousands of miles away,
And our vehicles, tools and totems
At once, all would have to be taken
From us.
Our robot economy leaves us
Destitute, begging for jobs as
Servants of those who lay
Claim to the robots, which we
Made,
And mines and factories
Everywhere close. There are
Too many robots, not enough
People who make enough
Money for what they produce,
So their owners grow angrier.
One of these days, surely
Before the planet is baked,
All of those on it will be back
At war until millions are
Slaughtered, and, more
To the point, the robots
Are wreckage, and their
Former owners (the ones
Who've survived) will be
Guaranteed profits again.
Closer to home, in fact,
Just down the street, we
See boys on the sidewalk,
Murdered by boys, and by
Men in blue uniforms.
Nobody cares. There's
A gun show this weekend.
We all plan to go to buy
Tools and totems, which we
Will take home, and then
Use on our families or put
To our heads.
Yes, there's so much to write
About. Reader, you're right,
But I'll dream of that woman,
Instead.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 72 times
Written on 2016-01-02 at 15:04
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
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