The Night of the Murdered Poets

August 12th:

Like those who brook no argument,

Sinning, call others to repent

And lash the ones who speak their mind,

Put-out eyes of the hopeless blind,

So they shout-down common verse

And let the imp of the perverse,

Shred the words still warm on lips:

Let books slip from fingertips.

Hating all who think wrong things

Their toxic torment a gift which brings

More torture still, more calumny

For the straw-stuffed enemy.

So they charged the poets with

Treason and rhyme; they chose to live

Through words that carried truth revealed

And strove and sought, refused to yield.

They hanged them high and dry upon

The gibbets built by some moron,

Who laughed at them swung in the breeze

From his high perch, down on his knees.