Made in God’s image?
We are comedy gold.
Toy trinkets playing with our toys.
Baby has his nuclear artillery,
At the gate.
Babies have their guns ready;
Babies: there’s a man in the house!
Suited in pretend apparel.
Pretend this is serious!
Give away baby America’s secret.
She’ll look the other way,
And blubber incoherent chatter,
About how the suit works wonders!
And they’ll sweep baby Russia,
Under the rug.
The small chatter of intel;
And the nuclear pretenses,
For pretend professionals!
It’s all very fun – O, what fun!
Kids, with their toys left out,
And their messes on the floor.
Crackers smashed across the dials,
Of transmitting signals.
The babies blame the last leader.
President of his class:
He gave band-aids to patch salt-wounds,
And fundraised the whole thing.
And each kid got a sticker of life.
But the next leader says:
“Do away with band-aids!
Do away with health-kits and fundraisers!
I have my own fundraiser! A better fundraiser!” –
Loss of band-aids,
And health-kits, and care.
The funny kid in a suit pretending to care.
He laughs, a little nervous.
He begins to insult the kids, pressuring them.
He begins to promise,
To make everything better.
That the last president’s fundraiser has never worked.
Some of the kids begin to believe this.
They forgot the holes in the argument.
They forgot the wounds they used to have,
And how hard life used to be for them.
They forgot the past repeats itself.
They forgot everything.