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