Misfit power
David against the giant empire
the rebellion of the sons against the father
is an old, old story
(Norman Brown.)
mayhem in the colonies
Mutiny on the bounties
The mouse that roars
The elephant that buckles
The shot that is slung
The ogre sinks to his knees
And vanishes into the ground
The copter crashes into the jungle
The death star blown to kingdom come
The empire falters, the imperial army stumbles
The weak overwhelm the strong
A ring bearer brazenly walks into the land of Darkness
A boy with a porridge bowl dares ask for more
Nobility hides in orphans clothes
True wealth lies in a pauper’s robes.
Upstart Martin
Bookworm monk
Nails his beef on the
Papal door.
Stories of Washington
& rag tag armies, misfit crews
Slipping out in the dead of night
Into a divine mist or fog
By the invisible hand of God
Pivotal moments at the birth of epochs
Pitchfork armies, militias
& the speakeasy ways of Thomas Paine
w/ common sense words, & a pamphlet
spelling out quite clearly that the King
he wears no crown.
Elegant words from a dubious lord
Slave-owner, lawyer, visionary, boar.
& it seemed for a spell, Dixie might win the war.
Triumph of the weak over the ways of the World
Is an old, old story, as history has bore.
Ironies are bound as the tables often turn
In this sordid tale, this Morality Play
Or as they say in the East, even the demigods will stumble
As they fall over their own reflection.
You can rise too high, soar too far
& for that you will be humbled.
No sooner do you set sail for America
That your ship runs into ice & is lost in its own legend & lore
Little consolation to the souls mired in the depths of the dark Atlantic
Or for the survivors as they drag themselves to shore.
This is an old, old story
The Story of America
The underdog that sings.
A tortured song for true Americans then
That are torn by dark musings.
Just as an Empire’s battleships
Sailed for our precious American shores
We now find our sailors and sons faraway
Trying to settle some score
Trying to teach the world to sing
In the tumult of a third world war.
How far from America, have we sailed from thee,
This city on a hill no more?
