Requires panache, aplomb,
A conscience with resilience
Or else exceeding numb,
But yet, “Support the soldiers!
Support the troops!” we hear,
When words are not divulgers
Of honest meaning clear.
For, strutting proud like peacocks
Whilst causing blood to flow
Remits dementia praecox
In all who posture so—
It is a tad ironic
To see marauding thugs
Complexed Napoleonic
As if they were on drugs.
No, do not point that rifle
Nor let the bullets fly,
A soul is not a trifle,
And men who kill must die.
A people countenancing
Such murder and such crime
May call it self-defensing,
But truth comes out in time.
For Jesus was a stranger
And lo! you shut him out;
Was hungry, but with anger
Did all compassion flout.
It was your own Lord Jesus
You shot if shoot you did,
And rubbed his words in feces
Which deed will not stay hid.