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

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