Gunfire reigns above the graves of those been shot and killed, or maimed.

And left to dig their own graves in Iraqi sand

As we, the few, the proud, the brave, the dumb, the weak, the safe, the slain

Stew in our complacency, die in our democracy, revel in our bigotry, and live in our hypocrisy.

But we are not alive.

For we have been slain by our swords, our hoards, and our words.

That day a week, those words come out, “Let us live out the plan of God”

But no sword could cut what truth away that lay in that pitiful phrase

We give “all we can” then dine on a thirty dollar meal.

The rest of the week is just as surreal—

We stoop on our couches lay back and relax

Eat out nightly, and complain about tax

As kids in Uganda are given guns to carry for more miles than our daily commute.

Talk about taxing.

For our comfort comes at a price:

Our life, our morals, our values, our word, and our worth.

Is all this worth our shallow mirth?