There once was a pill-popping martyr
Whose death was left subject to barter
His demise was demeaning;
The rioters scheming
To loot in his name: a non-starter.
The deceased, at the time of his death
Contained fentanyl traces, and meth.
Yes, his death was unjust.
Raise a fist, if you must…
But the court has now judged his last breath.
When the truth finally hits, it hits big.
While condemning the chauvinist pig,
Do not fall for that line
That St. George was divine;
More a drug-addled player, you dig?
You’re so stupid you think it’s sincere :
Urban violence designed to spread fear.
It’s a crisis they use
When they win, we all lose;
Civil chaos. The methods are clear.
Angry rent-a-mobs, looting and burning,
Destroy other’s livelihoods, earning
A good rioter’s wage
For destruction and rage
(As the locals, too late, are now learning).
Kyle Rittenhouse: Reaction
Grosskreutz chased him, intending to harm.
Kyle Rittenhouse sounded alarm;
Then surrounded by danger,
Engaged with that stranger
Who needed a shot in the arm.
Joey Rosenbaum handled it well,
Though he’s no longer present to tell;
And his threat: Shoot me nigger !
Elicits a snigger
From demons and devils in hell.
The third idiot, Huber by name,
Used his skateboard to bludgeon. For shame!
Mr. Rittenhouse shot—
And that skater-dude got
A delicious hot slice of the same.
Methinks this World is oddly made, And ev’ry thing’s amiss, A dull presuming Atheist said, As stretch’d he lay beneath a Shade; And instanced in this:
Behold, quoth he, that mighty thing, A Pumpkin, large and round, Is held but by a little String, Which upwards cannot make it spring, Or bear it from the Ground.
Whilst on this Oak, a Fruit so small, So disproportion’d, grows; That, who with Sence surveys this All, This universal Casual Ball, Its ill Contrivance knows.
My better Judgment wou’d have hung That Weight upon a Tree, And left this Mast, thus slightly strung, ‘Mongst things which on the Surface sprung, And small and feeble be.
No more the Caviller cou’d say, Nor farther Faults descry; For, as he upwards gazing lay, An Acorn, loosen’d from the Stay, Fell down upon his Eye.
Th’ offended Part with Tears ran o’er, As punish’d for the Sin: Fool! had that Bough a Pumpkin bore, Thy Whimseys must have work’d no more, Nor Scull had kept them in.
I drove a chariot for Egypt’s dead gods, obeyed decrees of an angry Pharaoh. Vision widens where hope seems to narrow as coral crusts the rims and axle-rods. Submerged upon the sands my army’s host; Erythrean currents their secrets keep. The waters gave way, drowned me in the deep while God led you forth toward your promised coast. There was no choice for me, the charioteer. A tyrant sent me forth to hunt you down; pursuing you, I thought your end was near. In the descent, I lost my star and crown. My lord was false, while yours continues strong . . . I rise from depths to further you along.
PROMPT #9: write a poem in the form of a “to-do list.”
CONNECT/HOOK 