Rootsie

Ode to  Kissinger

Each day now a new ghoul is disinterred
Pressed into service of new world order
He trails his putrid stench with each footfall,
Here to assure us? lay our fears to rest?
His creds are after all impeccable:
Chile a torture chamber and Pnomh Penh
Sabra, Shatillah, cities of the dead.

They say that every woman loves a thug
The boot in the face, the Bushmaster
Pressed against the breast yes we surrender
Led like tender lambs to the slaughter.
To the survivors is left the horror.
They count upon our fear to silence us.
They gloat and brag, at last they have a lock,
They’ve conjured up the war that never ends.
Our best friends yesterday our enemies.
Look, my people, it’s 1933.

It’s hard to give credence to what we see.
How bad, after all, could they really be?
Imagination fails us, history
Is what we struggle not to remember.
And what are those of us who do to do?
Like gil-scott sing, keep movin for what’s true.
And bob, we jam until the jammin’s through.

These days, to tell the truth is blasphemy.
Blaspheme than, blasphemers and have no fear:
The biggest secret is that they are done .
And know it. And thus their desperation.
Sometimes you know things just ain’t what they seem.
He who laugh last children is he who win.