Rusted tanks and melting ice cream cones.
Love on dirty mattresses all alone.
Don’t tell me what the poets are doing.
Don't tell me you got it made.
Don’t tell me our troops will win.
Who the fuck made you king?
Jets look cool flying shiny, high above.
Babies cry while they dodge, whiter doves.
Don’t tell me you’re buying an electric vehicle.
Don’t tell me you don’t buy from the frozen food section.
Don’t tell me you are fightin’ for peace.
Who the hell made you the thought police?
There’s blood on the kitchen counter.
Jane isn’t coming home.
The boots are hittin’ the ground.
The sabers are rattlin’ on the road.
Don’t tell me you believe the president.
Don’t tell me you follow the evening news.
Don’t tell me the medicine you take is true.
Don’t tell me - I’m not a poet for you.
Sun is going down.
Pink smoke covers the tired sky.
I forgive you all
for you know not
what you do.
Ask a poet.
He’ll tell you.
in memory of Gordon Downie