C.B. Anderson

A Small Service

 

The sons of Senators don't go to war;

they play and go to college, party late,

sleep till afternoon, gamble and whore

at the best establishments to sate

the appetites their fathers redirected

toward pursuit of power -- but they call

it something else, a term of art elected

officials relish: public service... all

of which suggests a way for them to serve

us better, if their honours would be kind

enough to honour favours we deserve

for putting their impostures out of mind.

 

Their quos will partly balance out our quids

if they will just make laws, and not have kids.

 

Take a Deep Breath

 

The damage that the embers cause is minimal,

But even so, the laid-back guy whose errant sparks

Defile the tablecloth is deemed a criminal

By scolds who won't withhold derogative remarks.

 

Tobacco is the bane of Man -- or so they say --

Anathema to any thinking person who

Has seen the lighted match, seen ashes fill the tray

Of fools who never do what they've been told to do.

 

No use in asking for a second or a third

Opinion -– no one can evade the heartless mind

Police, and no one ever gets to hear a word

Beyond the limits that the judges have defined.

 

Imagine smoking pipes of peace with native chiefs,

With all your critics hunkered just outside the tent;

But also, think about your deepest core beliefs

And, had you dared to share them, what this might have meant

 

For students in the early stages of their swank

Miseducation. Charismatics speak in tongues,

And there've been many proper citizens who drank

Themselves to death.  So why the fuss regarding lungs?

 

C.B. Anderson © 2008