Life Song

A Poem by David C. Roberson

A small, unimportant poetic offering, probably written when I was hungry.

Life Song
07/11/2006
by David C. Roberson

Bring your faded garden gnomes
to rest upon my lawn.
Appease the Queen,
her follied majesty
will soon be gone.

Do not deem your circumstance
too foolish to believe.
We all know exactly what
the world has up its sleeve.

Cast the die
and fall head-first
towards your gentle fate.
Just don't you call the house
at any hour that is late.

Sinister revolting:
revolve around your Pa's resolve.
You are young
and party some
where pipers play their songs.

Redeem the cut,
the ever-clipped,
the printed paper small,
with symbols large
that say to all,
"GET 40 PERCENT OFF!"

Brace your arm
against the rail
to guard your sinking ships.
Do not let your enemy
observe your moving lips.

Call your strike and fall away
to grumble "hit" or "miss"
when he smiles,
Bedeviled Glee,
the traitor in your midst.

Commove the congregation
and conceal the conclave ruling.
Break the rules of real religious
righteous regal rulers
who lead the sheep in gathered mass
like Jews to Nazi chambers,
And gas the weak to better form
their government of danger.

Place your tongue
within the mouth of Death,
The Timeless Drifter.
That Vagabond
by happenstance
has hardly been a stranger.

Fritter, fratter constantly
upon the sands of science.
Fall on bended knees to seal
your unholy alliance.

Drown in labels
from the top
Kings Blue and Red still reigning.
You will not dare decipher
degradation in their faking.

Teach the herd,
those pigeons cooing,
the mindless morons
Meek and mewling
Blankly blinking, drinking, drooling
The milquetoast milk their sad undoing.

Left the Right
to join the Left,
But nothing feels quite right.
The Right will cling to God
and claim the rest are
Left Behind.

Left to slouch in sin and such,
Left to dark death tidings,
Left to seek the wondrous things
that always are in hiding.

Right the wrongs
Left by the Right.
Those snakes demand no treading,
But left the rights of those not white
Or straight in tattered bedding:

Rats reside in nests beside
The warmth of burning crosses,
Twisting Word to weaken reason
And hide their moral losses.

Call your God
and I'll call mine
we'll all sit down to tea.
Curse the hair that's in my eyes
And sate Bedeviled Glee.

Your God does not look kind upon
the boys who look like girls,
And girls who look like boys
should all be stricken from this world.

But my God calms your God right down
His voice like summer chimes,
and says that all of us are His.

He reads between the lines
of codes that make our images
to find the hidden nodes
that dictate our design
and what we feel and love and know.