Martinizing the King

martin-king

Martin Luther, righteous King,
made the Reformation sing.
Popes and peasants, out of key
turned it into misery.
German beer and Roman crimes
made for most uncivil times
much like our own. We must confess
rights and wrongs we yet possess…

Half a millennium later on
a Baptist pastor and his son
took this noble Saxon name
and furthered the Reformer’s fame.
Some revisionists deny
St. Martin Luther’s role, and try
to minimize theology
in civil rights chronology.
The second Luther of my song
inspired—but did not last as long.
Social Justice notwithstanding,
King’s successors need re-branding.
Politicians steal his mantle,
cloak their lies in his example;
agitators claim his glory
editing God out of the story;
educators sing his praises
but some people’s conduct raises
doubts about that dream of King—
and hope… and change…  and everything.

martinized

 

Pressing Limericks

KING LIMERICKS BREAKING LIMERICKS BREAKING LIMERICKS BREAKING LIMERICKS BREAK

STOP the PRESSES while we pop the stresses!

EXtry, EXtry, read all about it:

Fake news pays dues to sing rural blues in red-state hues.
Nanny-state networks accuse & civil fury ensues !
See special edition on CIA sedition :

FAKE NEWS: it’s the virus du jour
of the global elitists. The poor
are more prone to believe
it’s a plot to deceive
and no government offers a cure.

The rural red states stand accused
By the quingdom whose queen they refused.
It’s so hillbilly-larious:
all of them various
voters now left unamused.

 

image: thepeoplescube

fake

 

Ace of Bhangra

The song crawls out of sludge from the bottom of the Indus River, from beneath the ruins of Harappa and Mohenjo-Daro. The burning sun tries in vain to penetrate the thick foliage of the ancient fig tree beneath which she reclines: the thousand-faced mistress of the myriad temples, the dancer, the priestess, the worshiper, the idol, the eternally pregnant singer . . .

She who alone knows why no human remains were ever recovered from the excavated city, the Mother of the thousand abortions, she who gave birth to the beats of the rhythm—and the space between each beat, the unnameable principle of dread . . . the slow flow of the river at sunset obscured by smoke of human flesh from the smoldering ghats . . .

 selfish-idol-e1380164258279 idols-toe

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