War on us. Yeah, war on us,
we’ve declared a war on us.
Lied ’bout us. Oh! Lied ’bout us!
We’ve slandered, libeled, lied ’bout us.
Ignored the fuss and missed the bus
and acted like it weren’t ’bout us;
we’ve watched us lash and bash and smash
and turned around to chase the cash.
We’re crazy, sez the crazies. Yes,
we’ve schized around and made a mess.
We’ve never been forced to confess;
so eat our children like a pest.
When pulling sheets over our heads,
dubbing ourselves so damned be knighted,
shivers, suppressed dreams of dead;
we spank ourselves for what we sleighted.
We crave release. Oh, crave release,
but, not caught, yet, by the police,
we wear nice clothes and aim to please;
wait patiently for light to flee
and cover our acts with darkness’ cloak
then creep about like a nasty joke.
We’re schized, all of us and together,
make our lives like cold, damp weather.
What is there to seek, to find?
An ashen culture’s moldy rind?
The contents of a banker’s waste
paper basket, paper chase?
The kids talk mean and parents cry
as, wondering exactly why
the world changed as they slowly aged
and left. The others, nameless, raged.
In Africa or other place
that no-one with a brain would take
a tourist’s berth to on a dare
humanity, no less, lives there.
So what if everyone else croaks?
No bed of roses was bespoke
by ecstatic, escapist pairs
attempting to salve loinic cares.
Copyright: J. Risdon 1991 and 2011