Endless Precipitous Hasty Procrastination

I’ve heard the angry bumble bee buzz by
My ear, to leave me thinking with a sigh
How just a few more inches to one side
And I’d have lost an eye, my brain, or died.

Someone whom I had never met or hurt
Could well have left me lying in the dirt.
From somewhere in the tree line taking aim,
He barely missed collecting me as claim

To all that I had known and loved and been
As well as what in future I might pen:
A tale in rhyme of what Misfortune’s due
When dupes and tools of “leaders” misconstrue

Their duty to “watch over” and “instruct”
Those independent foreigners they’ve fucked.
But even pooches screwed can turn and bite;
Their “handlers” sick with hydrophobic spite,

From such “non-hostile” causes often die
In consequence of labor for a lie.
They kill us; we kill them; and so it goes;
For nothing but to hide the crime that shows.

The perpetrators of this folly know
That they’ve once chance alone: and that’s, “Go slow!”
In time, all memory they hope will fade
And then, once more, they’ll call a heart a spade:

More life to dig more graves that they require
To fill the minutes of their manic hour.
Upon the stage they strut and fret and then
Refuse to exit where and why and when

We tell them: “You’re not wanted. Time to leave.
You’ve stalled for long enough while victims grieve;
Our mothers, sons, and daughters -- fathers, too --
Want nothing more than nothing more from you.”

Yet still the ones who spread again war’s waste
Claim we should not act swiftly, or in “haste,”
To stop the drowning years and years astern
Of their Titanic passing: “Never Learn!”

Our rulers call “precipitous” all acts
Of sanity proceeding from the facts
That they deny or simply cover up:
A thin disguise capsizing in a cup.

Michael Murry, “The Misfortune Teller,” Copyright © 2008