Rhymes from the Hinterland - The Hypocrites - The Things Which Kill - An Event to Lament - The Solemn Swearers by Guy Graybill!

 

THE HYPOCRITES 

They dot their ev’ry ‘i’

And cross their ev’ry ‘t’. 

They’re perfect,

 so they claim,

 Compared to you and me.

 No rule may thus be bent

 By any human known.

 There’s nothing they’ll approve

 And nothing they’ll condone.

 With knowledge less than slight,

 They think they know too much;

 So those they find know more

 They claim are ‘out-of-touch’.

 Should ever you dispute

 The power they’ve assumed,

 There’s none can stay your fate.

 In wrath, you’ll be consumed!

 They summon all their friends,

 To quickly congregate.

 They made a super find:

 Another group to hate!

 With venom they condemn.

 Each boldly vilifies;

 With rumors lacking base

 And oft-repeated lies.

 At those who bend the rules,

 They’re first to cast a stone.

 There’s no exception seen

 Except, of course, their own!

~

THE THINGS WHICH KILL

 When blinded Polyphemus chose a rock

 To hurl at bold Odysseus in his flight,

 His weapon was as one from cave-man’s stock;

 Its simple function: death to expedite!

 But, even then, in that gray, Dorian dawn,

 New ways had been designed to maim and slay.

 The things which kill have ever come and gone,

 ‘Though killing’s stayed in fashion to this day. Creating weapons always leads the field

 Of scientific areas of advance. 

New, shining missiles are today revealed,

 As genius takes a military stance.

 But, whether made by genius or by fool,

 Each weapon’s still a gross, barbarian tool.

~

AN EVENT TO LAMENT

 The war has gone away. 

Who will we bomb today?

 Without a formal fight,

 What homes can we ignite?

 How will we stay in shape,

 If we can’t kill and rape?

 Without campaigns to win,

 What medals will they pin?

 Should peaceful times prevail,

 We’ll all be whole and hale;

 But, grit we can’t display.

 The war has gone away. . . .

~

THE SOLEMN SWEARERS

 When presidents declaim their oaths

 And utter to the fawning crowd,

 The nation looks,

 and glows with pride.

 Each native heart is justly proud.

 But, we all know—

if we’ll admit—

 The luster pales;

 the pride recedes.

 Each spotless one self tarnishes.

 Our leader changes as he leads.

 We might expect each aspirant,

 The august office to besmirch.

 We seek for men of noble mien;

 But, that’s an almost futile search.

 In fact, we’ve gone the other way.

 The ones that voters let survive,

 Not chancing image newly stained,

 Are tarnished well when they arrive!

~

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