The Vampires Are Our Lords

    
The Vampires Are Our Lords

You have reached to me for succor,
For a tune to soothe the heart.
Yet the only thing I offer
Is a great, resounding fart.

Should a toad be prized for beauty?
Should a murderer mind your child?
Will we gift the evil ogre
With a visage meek and mild?
  
You had asked me if the illness,
That we see afflicts our race,
Is a sign of human madness.
Are our rivets out of place?
    
I may try my best to answer,
In a manner long or terse.
Yet I cannot cure a cancer
Or a pox by writing verse.

Since there isn't goodness only,
Since there's much that's really bad,
There are men who wander lonely,
There are women driven mad.
    
If your conscience was awakened, 
If your duty beckoned you,
For the times that you have listened,
You'll have paid the tax that's due.

There are havens still of kindness
In a universe unkind.
There are shelters in the tempest.
These are places hard to find.

For the fortunate who've found them,
These are blessings from on high.
But the ones who are without them,
They will suffer till they die.

There is chance and there's endeavor. 
When we're lucky, these may join.
But our labor may be joyless, 
And our pay – in worthless coin.

There are those who shirk from effort,
There are those who labor long.
But the ones who are the winners
Are the ones who play along.

When we're trained to do what's honest,
Then we suffer, in our times.
We can shelter in religion.
We can soothe our wounds with rhymes.

We can choose to be unbending –
Or can sway as tempests blow.
We can do what conscience tells us 
Or can simply dance the show.

We can rail against injustice, 
We can fight for what is right.
But when we're not an army,
Is there victory in sight?

Where's the heart in one who's callous? 
Where's the water in a stone?
What we all must do together,
Can a loner do alone?

How many are the nations
That have gloried in their kings!
Of whom is it that Homer,
In his blindness, duly sings?
  
We have lifted up our brigands,
So the vampires are our lords.
The workers, we have humbled –
And have made, of devils, gods.

There are things that make us happy, 
But there's much that makes us sad.
We can try our bestest, chappy,
And be slowly driven  mad.

There are feeding chains we're part of.
It's time for you to see.
There are eaters, there are eaten –
Including you and me.
   
2014 June 10th, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York