Little Brown Pilgrims
“This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper”
T.S. Eliot – Hollow Men
Trains of destiny
Trains of tomorrow
The children are escaping
Brown lands of sorrow
Big hands abound
That push, drag, grab…
…and let go
Some look away
Some look too interested
Mommy
Mommy?
Mommy, where are you?
I need you
I miss you, mommy
Mommy, did I do something wrong?
Its…it’s cold
It’s…
Cold sterile world
Dollhouse without players
Reeks
Lets not bite that apple today
Ignore the muffled sounds
Close the door, Pedro
You didn’t see anything
He walks the great steps of Marble Hill
Mingles with silver peddlers (they want their fill)
The ladies and lords watch their strings and write their will
Too much time, not enough to kill
Brown eyes look at his badge
I don’t know them (stop)
Crusted, dirty, possibly infected
I don’t know them (please stop)
Eyes like mine
I don’t know them, go away
Nap time
Aroma of bathroom in the air
Eau de Toilette
New siblings everywhere
One big family
Kept pushing one to play (never got up)
Count some sheep to go to sleep
Uno, Dos, Tres…
Not our problem
It’s just not our problem
Send them all back
Then we’ll be on track
Responsibility?
I think you mean ACCOUNTability
If the PARENTS took care of them….
If they just PAID for their own…
Frankly, I don’t understand all the commotion
In my day, we’d toss ‘em like fish into the ocean
Now, about that oil pipeline…
Take off your hat (brown bald spot)
Take off your badge (less metal to you)
Take off your clothes (that’s where it went)
Knock yourself down a foot and a half
Remove some wrinkles
Put that moustache on your head
Add some sparkle to those tired eyes
Remember spiderman, batman (better), he-man (slightly worse)
What are you now?
The verdict awaits
Hungry, fearful, tearful, alone
They sit at the gates
No great movement for them
No forming of masses
No rallying, social media, or any tear gasses
Just a thousand whimpers and wails
Lost, forgotten, carried by life’s uncaring gales
Silently, heads look the other way
Praying it’s only a lie
Bibles sung upon Marble Hill
Don’t reach the poor
Don’t reach the needy
Do reach hands
Of the privileged and greedy
The king is (as always) late
Until then, the verdict awaits