An Elegaic Poem

I’m not a poet. I don’t particularly like poems. But for the next nine weeks, I’ll be turning out poety. C’est la vie.

The land of the free and the home of the brave,

No longer so brave or so free.

Shackles and chains made of dollars and cents

Restrain our fair Lady Liberty.

 

The poor, the tired, the huddled masses,

don’t have to come knocking on our door.

People out of work, families being shattered,

we don’t need to import trouble anymore.

 

What happened to you, old US of A,

the farmers who stood against tyranny?

What would you think, Fathers and Founders,

if you saw what we’d made of your great country?

 

Children in homes, unloved and unwanted,

Girls on the streets, desperate for love.

Religion is Marx’s opiate for the masses,

we’re told it’s foolish to pray for help from above.

 

The brighter the fire, the shorter the life,

and Liberty burned bright indeed.

Who now will shoulder the mantle, the cross,

and help those who truly have need?

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