Poor Boys
Oh, those poor boys.
They hear the alarms on the farms, in the ghettos
and jump into Uncle Sam’s bloody arms.
They paint themselves in patriotic uniforms
say goodbye to Betty-Sue and put themselves
into harm’s way for lucre and tradition, for greedy
old men who skipped THEIR turns to burn
with red, white, and blue fervor, to burn with
napalm and crispy critters, to die for their daddies
pride.
Oh, those poor boys and girls.
Old merchants bought politicians with dirty dollars,
hollered at those boys and girls about duty,
about glory and money, education and riches,
if they live, freedom won with poor blood
flooding rich coffers, flag-draped coffins
and more fucking guns if they lose the bet,
twenty one shots from seven barrels, making
them all cringe like grandpa when he hears
a helicopter, cringe like
mothers.
Oh, those greedy old fucks!
that prey on the corpse of the middle-class,
prey on the ones that are down on their luck,
the ones that ain’t got the big bucks for college,
the ones with a lot of courage, that pluck them
from good families and return them FUBAR –
FUCKED UP BEYOND ALL RECOGNITION.
Those greedy old men that can’t hear god sing,
can’t hear freedom ringing in the ears
of nations that don’t conform to the norm
of subservience to the red white and blue
machine, those green and gray monsters,
those men that cling to property, those colonial
bullies.
Oh, the fathers and mothers
That send progeny to feed the beast, that
offer their young to the cannibalistic cabal
that advertizes for folks with the least
to offer up sacred sacrifice of sons and daughters
to pose as corpses in the ledgers of endless
ones and zeros, for riches gained by the pain
of their get, that bet the lives of heroes
to move lines on maps, lines on faces
of grieving mothers, others that sell poppies
on holidays, never mind the fields of
Afghanistan; never mind the races that are
inordinately numerous at Arlington;
never mind the kind of boys they choose;
never mind the ones they never lose,
safe in the arms of America, that its on poor
bones that the monster chews.
Oh, man
now, we have TWO wars going!
Look at all the seeds of war we’re sewing!
These ones over here want you to die for god,
while that one over yonder had an odd god,
so he’s gotta go, sure as snow in December!
Remember the sixties, “give peace a chance?”
Remember how we used to dance while we
chanted, singing, “All we are aaaasking”
while they beat us, those brainwashed sons
of the great unwashed while the sons of the
senators basked in the arms of Betty-Lou?
Well, now, its our boat, an’ we’re rowing,
an’ the seeds of war we’re sewing are sprouting
in our children. We’re bloodying the sand
to keep the oil flowing, to keep a face-shooter’s
stock in Halliburton high, sending our babies
to die, killing some brown mama’s babies
‘cause they have oil, odd gods, and folks that
kill us for killing them, and the fucking wheel
keeps turning and Rome, it seems, is always
burning.
Author notes
first draft. Spontaineous combustion.
In a list
A contest entry
- Photograph by Pamela A Lamppa.
2200 points, ended November 20, 22 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 13 of 13
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WOOT!!! 
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Excellence in Poetry
How do I even breathe after this? How?
I read this. And I read it again because I found my soul in it, and then I read it again because I needed to.
I was asking you to be inspired - I was not asking for the ordinary. I was asking for this.
Brilliant.
Thank you. Absolutely Thank you. ~Pamela
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among my tears of happiness
I see someone who believed in right and despises what the 'old people' are doing. How comforting for me to read that there are many who see such wrongs. Thank you for this poem.
But apart from the actual concepts I find the poem easy to read and to absorb. The verse structure is not demanding but it is constant and helps keep the mind intact. Great stuff.
From an Aussie, you are bloody good.
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Exquisitely Extraordinary...
A social philosophic realistic composition of impressive imagery and multiple symbolism, made out of seventy-five diamonds ~forming six diadems~ as a jewel's collection for Calliope and Clio.
This composition depicts the activities of the sons of ERIS and ARES, and satirizes the Propaganda of the false patriotism of the sixties and its
malefic forces that still influence our society under the hypnotic Plutocratic trance.
This poem strikes the inner mind and prods the historic engine to reminisce, and to give wings to imagination... An inspiring, instructive and wise voice singing to social awareness and freedom... "Poor Boy" is very rich in contents and poetic historic sustainability.
In respect and admiration,
Andre Emmanuel Bendavi ben-YEHU
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Shout it from the roof tops I say!
Your poetry begs to be said out loud.
Powerful.
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Rob on fire and just fine as far as I can see....I have been with Jin and reading a lot of Anne Waldman, someone I think you would know well, some of her articles just remind me of you so much, like you I would like to sit with her or you and just discuss things perhaps I can pick you up on our bus when Jin and I go cross America lol on a Poets of Madness tour..it's a plan isn't it??
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you betcha...
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Cool we will save you a seat
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It is a bit raw
but the ring of truth is there. I don't believe all that stuff, but that is beside the point. It comes across powerfully.
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Spontaneous combustion indeed!
Well spoken, and spoken from and for the hearts of so many.
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Five Stars !
As always, Ganson inspires ... so instead of a review, comments or praise, I spew this:
First it was Nam napalm nightmares
we endured while Dick broke into
Watergate Hotel Hell to prove his pointless
chatter about communism's empty threat
Now, McDonald-laden and a quick change of name and Hanoi City is harmless
So we have Afghan agonies to worry about
they say ...
and oil and blood stirred
an odd mix
a shell game led by texass hole's Co and red state fervor
a mobile company rant led by stockholders' bottom line. Still, troops converge and look for 911 culprits in all the wrong places.
Bush gets paid millions to speak to Lone Star chambers of commerces and hides out behind battle flags he borrowed from the White (flop)House he crashed in years ago.
No longer needing the draft
the Machine, instead, promises, $ for education and a job in the heat
for boys and girls too
while corporate sponsors skim the big bucks on the backs of Islamic civilians caught between suicide bombers and billionaires.
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Spontaneous combustion, Ginsbergian in tone and philosophical content . . . a mad wild rhapsody of beatific words to burn the half dead ears of the power mongers who sit in leather armchairs counting coins with their oil stained hands . . . bravo poet, for having the courage to shout your message across the blood stained sands of the planet . . .
Marc
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Fancy meetin' you here. 
*nudges yer ribs* I knew
I could count on you to present yourself, Maestro. Good luck in Pamela's contest, my wild and wondrous Forever Friend.
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