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The Casualties of More

My mother is a dancer

She spins on Friday nights

My father is a miner

He never sees the light


Please bomb my brothers

Though they have done nothing wrong

Marry off my sisters

They’ll be women before long


I myself, play the tambourine

And lack in self delight

You, my dear, will lead the resistance

Of the frank and the impolite


Give each man a ribbon

To tie to his toes

So we may march barefoot

To the beat of rattling prose


Little yellow bastards

Will dive between your thighs

In an attempt to distract you

From the ten delinquent spies


I will create diversions

With whistles and with bells

Weaving to and fro

Avoiding enemy shells


Then I’ll be hit with a golden axe

And writhe on the ground in vain

Run away like winter  

And say goodbye to Canaan


I will be apprehended

And though I will not resist

You’ll be able to hear the clamour of my bells

As I rattle- like a bed-ridden tempest


I am the marble-faced pig

And I shall be beheaded over the sink

My heavy head will topple

As I lean in for a drink


Joyfully, the last event

That should be considered important

Was my final vainglorious thoughts

Before my life was shortened:


That when you wear your hair up

Your neck declares the wealth of nations

But your steady hand

Feels like emancipation

Lorne Svarc · 1694 days ago
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The Casualties of More