writers eye

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Children cried from hunger,

As children will cry from hunger,

Blinded by our own greatness,

Their cries drove us to madness.

They must have worms,

We said, so we killed their roundworms.

But they would not stop crying,

From dusk to dawn nothing but yelling

We gave them poison for hookworms,

Then we tried poison for pinworms,

For big worms, and small worms

And all tribes of worms.

But they cried on and on and on.

We said, “This cannot go on,

They are nothing but troublemakers,

Pesky pests like their mothers.

Give then rat poison.

See if that does not work”.

And it worked.


“One Day Sometime”




Sing us again the song of love,

The song that made you alive and free,

The song you sung when hope was young,

When love was true, and earth so free,

When we were young and dreamt together.

Let us sing again that song together,

The song of joy, the song of hope,

The song of life.



Who will write the song, the song of the land,

A land where children die, women cry and men despair

As hope dies in the middle of the day

Where fathers see but beginning and middle,

Son sees no farther than middle, and

Grandsons see nothing but a terrible future,

Pain and agony to reap, to inherit,

And to endure to the bitter death.

Who will write that song, the song of a land,

Sacked and burned, raped and looted, and

Stabbed, stabbed, and stabbed,

Dead with poisoned arrows,

From chiefs sworn to love, to protect and to preserve.

Who will write this song?

Writers Bush”

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