Boomtowns Gone Bust

When nations give God the middle finger,
Remnants of his bronze-age wrath may linger
And mess with investments or data-plans
Or gender (both the mother’s and the man’s).
National cycles of slow boom then bust
Reveal the limitations of our dust—
And the Lord who prospers may change, and curse
From behind the facade of our universe.
A tech-addled farce: that’s the dying face
Of our graceless, depraved and inhuman race
Glowing with sin; lit up by tiny screens
Upon which the globalist ends and means
Seep into clueless souls. These dead-in-life
With which our funereal times are rife,
Live for online shopping, Facebook, and sports
Immune to all the incoming reports
That their doom is hastening on its way
Inexorable progress, no delay . . .
With the Sovereign Lord, there is no plan B
For the tools of a godless technocracy.

Twilight’s wind now stirs.
In sacred grove leaves tremble . . .
Shoot. Lost my damn keys

Bend THIS

Why the hell would you want to change
if God thus made you (like Genesis)?
A notion so bizarre, so strange,
it begs some armchair analysis.
Such madness, yours. To rearrange . . .
thus we all learn what hubris is.
But on you babble, obscuring gender
(quite the conversation-ender).

 


Father  means a man
and Mother  means a woman
(there’s no other plan)

Mother Goose-Gas

Nikki Haley, big on talk
shook her UN tomahawk
War-path armchair quarterback,
she gave our world a gas-attack.

Repent for all the lies you’ve told;
the lap-dog narrative waxes old.
Your leash needs tightened. Down, girl. SIT.
You’re locked and loaded (full of shit).
Go beat your war-drum to the chief;
we offer you our unbelief
as tragic relief:

globalist stooge
Pentagon fake news
puppet of the Fake Jews
miss missile, Nimrata misinformed
missed the mark
Matriarch
in the dark

Hail Haley

write a poem that involves rebellion in some way. The speaker or subject of the poem could defy a rule or stricture that’s been placed on them, or the poem could begin by obeying a rule and then proceed to break it (for example, a poem that starts out in iambic pentameter, and then breaks into sprawling, unmetered lines).

 

 

 

 

Syrious Limericks

Though the chemical gas was a fable,
rebel terror we’ll arm and enable;
we will kick their Assad
with some help from Mossad
and create something TRULY unstable.

Little victims, all Syrian-bred,
look pathetic: so small, nearly dead.
Lack of documentation
won’t dampen our nation;
from YouTube to bombing we’re led.

War-hawks pause for no burden of proof.
Show a whimpering child and then— poof !
They, rush in, like a fool
using Trump as their tool.
He’s been militarized. What a goof.