The Poet Makes Clear His Intent

  

Shall I sing
of wars more than civil and less than kind
and of crimes against humanity?

Of a people that allows profit margins
 - a marginal prophet in any telling-
 to determine the fate of the poor,
the wretched unwashed masses?

Shall I compose a verse
for the painted faithful
who with pretense and indignation
have exchanged piety for power?

O cry “havoc!” when obstructionists rule;
let slip the dogs of our frustration.
Cry havoc, then everyone take his part.

Our sisters and their children
our brothers and our sons
mother, father,
are sold for a politician’s purse.

The rich shall have their cake
and consume the poor as well,
in red hands bare murder
and the groans of dying men.

If this is class warfare,
consider me armed
and dangerous even.