by Allen Taylor
Drawn out deep,
like the upward concerns
of an intern. Captains delight
in late night fatties, blue skies
dressed in vanilla, and star-
crossed lips ladled with love stains.
Free soil built this land. Death
may dance in the sun
but I'm taxed. Hand me a bill
of sale, this whore has the whole
damned country by the balls.
The king may know his legacy,
but where are his clothes, mind you?
The Right Wing spins
a new face while the Party
reminisces and the world
is made safe. For
democracy
is a costly business,
liberty a puff of smoke
in a courtroom.
Battlefield worms like us
seek security in slow-poppin' cherries
and close calls,
rockets red glaring past our bedtimes.
I'm fed the hell up with Hillians casting lots,
forgetting to shed light
on this year's stale,
burned-out
two-party topic.
Allen Taylor is an Iraq War veteran. Upon returning home he promptly resigned his commission and moved to Cyberspace. He is the webmaster at www.World-Class-Poetry.com and writes the daily www.WorldClassPoetryBlog.com.
