“I don’t quite view it as the broken egg. I view it as the cracked egg.” The shells are scattered from mosque to mosque And the burden of death spatters the cast down hands. You, sir, in war, may find your hokey rephrasing apt, But it’s severely distressing and utterly unbecoming!
Those that have been unduly dashed down into the loam, Those whose limbs have been severed and faces blown, Those felled that can never be put back together again (Not by all the kings’ horses or all the kings’ men) Are not standing with you, they’re too scattered to rise. Their bodies have been placed cruelly into the gaping soil, Slung to the winds coursing the world from your lies.
You smirk your goddamned grin from your goddamned throne As if to say “I’m invincible!" ..."I stand alone!” You smile upon your church and your God and your prosperity, But you don’t stand an agony’s chance with truth’s brazen clarity!
So you can call it what you may; cleaved or broken or wrecked Or quagmire or swamp or gray Or slough or slaughter or death… Or civil or sectarian unrest Or senseless or cracked or tragic or fate Or winnable or even too little too late Or pointless or criminal or sovereign Or even the sign of Armageddon, But for those whose lives have been snuffed out, Whose severed limbs beckon while they sleep, Deserve the best words you can assemble and spout, So, when you talk to the people, oh honorable king, You need to make it a most beautiful thing!
“I don’t quite view it as the broken egg.
I view it as the cracked egg.”
The shells are scattered from mosque to mosque
And the burden of death spatters the cast down hands.
You, sir, in war, may find your hokey rephrasing apt,
But it’s severely distressing and utterly unbecoming!
Those that have been unduly dashed down into the loam,
Those whose limbs have been severed and faces blown,
Those felled that can never be put back together again
(Not by all the kings’ horses or all the kings’ men)
Are not standing with you, they’re too scattered to rise.
Their bodies have been placed cruelly into the gaping soil,
Slung to the winds coursing the world from your lies.
You smirk your goddamned grin from your goddamned throne
As if to say “I’m invincible!" ..."I stand alone!”
You smile upon your church and your God and your prosperity,
But you don’t stand an agony’s chance with truth’s brazen clarity!
So you can call it what you may;
cleaved or broken or wrecked
Or quagmire or swamp or gray
Or slough or slaughter or death…
Or civil or sectarian unrest
Or senseless or cracked or tragic or fate
Or winnable or even too little too late
Or pointless or criminal or sovereign
Or even the sign of Armageddon,
But for those whose lives have been snuffed out,
Whose severed limbs beckon while they sleep,
Deserve the best words you can assemble and spout,
So, when you talk to the people, oh honorable king,
You need to make it a most beautiful thing!
Copyright © 2007 mrp / thepoetryman