New World Order
While Bureaucrats grow rich and fat
by Terry O'Leary
in six-star luncheonettes,
and Bankers beam Their self-esteem
(bailed out of broker's debts) ,
the deep, devout and down and out
sink, sallow silhouettes.
Tycoons hold reins (arrayed as chains)
where words have mesmerized.
So, mild and meek, we turn our cheek
to worlds They've polarized,
and march to war, through Satan's door,
watch cities vaporized.
The Lord of Lore tells tales of war,
of victories far away,
where eyes stare stark within the dark
and death is painted gray
on faces cold, some young, some old,
all lined with jaded clay.
We're taught at school the Golden Rule
for all to live in bliss.
But in the wars on foreign shores
the only rule is this:
'Yo! You and I must fight and die
inside the black abyss! '
But well alive, the Merchants thrive
on sales of armaments
that Barons built (with pride, not guilt)
to quell the dissidents,
while Artisans are posing plans
to conquer continents.
But back at home, the rumors roam
'Good times are soon to come,
despite the breeze on frozen seas
in weathers wet and numb.'
They fantasize with fleeting lies
and pray we'll all succumb.
A Tabloid screams of phantom dreams
to keep our minds at sea
and TV skews the evening news,
ensures we all agree:
'With dynamite we fight for right
and not for tyranny.'
The brain aborts when drugged with sports
and fashions of the day,
and sevenfold, men think as told
and so are led astray;
and like some sheep (unless asleep)
they baa when they obey.
In search of sense in sounds intense
of droning drum tattoos,
souls, thin and worn, file by forlorn,
in tame and tattered shoes -
their tears of pain, like streaks of rain,
have strewn the avenues.
Along the roads, the future bodes
in legends made of dust,
and ashes gray the alleyway
'neath lampposts scaled with rust.
While Divas dine with cakes and wine
pale orphans share a crust.
Dead colonies of bumble bees,
a ravaged hornet's hive,
rain forests, dales or minke whales
soon nothing left alive…
a world laid waste is to Their taste,
as long as They survive.
The Moguls wield a silver shield,
wear golden coronets
while warders guard the prison yard,
boast brazen bayonets;
and unicorns sport ivory horns,
defend the Martinets.
Ten thousand eyes belong to Spies
who watch you day and night
to track your trails and read you mails
and say They have the right
to know your thoughts and thwart your plots
to cease Their oversight.
Behind the scenes, behind the screens,
the rules are fixed, arranged
(contorted smiles conceal Their wiles -
Their goals have never changed) .
When upside-down, a grin is frown
and common sense deranged.
As sunlight wanes in winter rains
and sullen shadows crawl,
the evening ebbs, and spider's webs
seem tattooed on the wall.
And in the night the Masters write
The Final Protocol.