[Newspoetry] a poetic scheme

[Donald L Emerick]

> > abc
> > bcd
> > cde
> > dea
> > eab
> > abc

Testing...1 2 3...Testing
<Begin poem-test>

White Man's Burden
civilizes you,
as place of walls.

Bright shiny zoo:
animal stalls,
sleeps on slab floor.

Answer hour calls:
less can be more,
pay less per man.

Paperless store:
films in a Cannes
of man-herdin'.

Tightens your plan:
but slips word in
for us, here, too.

At Last Lured Inn:
modern toil coup,
oubliette alls!

<End-of-poem-test.>

Perhaps, lines were too short, so idea (a putative part, at best, of some disputatious statement) got lost in the shuffle, got truncated, perhaps, cut-off, caught wearing cut-offs and not following cue-tips in ears, which cuts would be unkind, unkindest of all, if and only if such cuts were tautologies of self?

Try, instead, our new format ferment for mental fermat firm at mint:

White Man's Burden
Vice-Spook Cheney spoke and spooked us,
made us turn whiter than a thousand sons of Texas.
Darker than the heart of Africa is the heart of America
that Cheney would scare up: misericordia ala Bush-El
shall be mercy killings of those too weak for his love,
too weak to withstand most noble and highest passion
for love of freedom, for love of country, for love of oil
is all one confused idea in the MBA tournament of roses,
as rigorous ideas are no strong suit of the strong-minded,
strong-willed bull-headed-minotaurians listen-to-nobodies-no-how,
so strong-willed that compared with him, Stalin would be a wimp,
so strong-willed that Mussolini only made the trains run on time,
but Him!  Why, he flexed his muscles and made trains run for cover,
he called to the hills, to the people, "Fall for us," and they did,
Soft hills trembled, hard mountains of skyscrapers shook and fell,
and concentration camps of trains came thundering upon us,
took all the trained seals away, barking, one, two, three, ...
testing us, even unto the opening of the last and seventh seal.

Lo, mine eyes have seen the "Glory" of the Coming of this "Lord"
and mine eyes have wept rivers from my strangled and broken heart,
for 666-gun-toting Bush is the SCARE-America-Fierce-Most
(Satan-posing-as-Christian-Again-Reborn-Eternal-AntiChrist) --
and millions shall have this beast's SCARE stamped on their brows,
the bushy horns that cuckold America wears are minotaurian.

Aye, then in these last Lambda days, the Lamb of God shall say,
"Good-morning, good-afternoon, good-evening, and good-night"
As if Truman Capote could have starred in the Truman Show,
As if anything Law'n Cheney said had anything to do with reality.

Bush will put on his Ten_Bushel_Hat and his Ten_Star,
which is a double pentagram, for pentagonistic polygoners,
who can't count the ways the walls were breached that day,
when they wrote Satanic verses, inside the walls, pour graffiti,
what goes up also comes down again: the sun also sets,
setsback, sets us further back when back-up spooks speak.

Impeach Bush?  Could we impeach a man who was never elected?
But, he impeaches himself everyday: he lies and knows that he lies
About Iraq and other Middle-Eastern scenes, haunted holy-oily lands.
He distracts us from the misery of our lives that he has deepened
by mean-spirited tax-policies (Tax Unwealthiness -- do not tax estates,
capital gains, or stock dividends, for all that is only money hard at work,
not a real person sweating in hard labor, as our syn-tax, says God),
hostility toward environmentals, and other ill-tempered administrations --
and all the while he tampers with the Golden-Mean, pre-emptively:
Do unto others before they even have the means to do it unto you!

Such Halo-Gen.etic-Mutations glow over the Ashcrofts and the Bushes,
People become confused by red-white-blue lights glittering in their eyes,
and think that the lights are true because such colors ought to be true.
Butch Cassidy and Bush-Cheney would have us think on empty grandeur's gestures,
that we are doing this war for the good of the world, who needs our valiant help,
as the white man's latest burden is born of this Bush-League's-War-on-Terrorism 
but the whole world says, "Stop, you fools! Don't act so madly! Stop!"

So, whom do you trust: the thieves who stole dishonestly into office,
in the middle of the muddle of a dark night (oh! dark and stormy night!),
and immediately began looting projected trillions in the treasury --
or do you trust the rest of the world, which intends you no harm
and has yet to think there is any hostile action directed toward you?

Thanks for Listening
Donald L Emerick

(This poem isn't much for meter or rhyme, but I hope its images shine on time.)
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