Uncle Sam's on a VentilatorThe clock keeps ticking. May as well watch it,
As not much is going to happen today. Oh,
The sidewalks and streets will be bloody again
From assault rifle fire, and fascists will work
Overtime to keep those they don't like from
The polls, but, otherwise, change will have
Stopped taking place. The poor will stay poor.
The gun shops will prosper. The wealthy still
Won't have to pay any taxes. The cops will
Keep beating and murdering helpless descendants
Of African slaves, and the right sorts of despots
Will receive their cash and their weapons from
This land, “the home of the free.” Our forces
Will sullenly circle the planet, financed by
Paper. They don't pay their way, nor does
Anyone, anything, here at the center of
This era's past-its-prime, decadent dynasty.
Ottomans, Manchus, Romanovs, Romans;
Empires grow old, and weaken and die.
Time appears to have stopped on these streets,
But the clocks, lacking mercy, won't coddle
The doomed. An era, grown fetid, will die.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
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Written on 2021-06-09 at 01:00
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