Unknown Poet

Missold

the mud and the bayonet.

The bloodaxe, the bow

the arrow so perfectly matched

to a soldier staring the vast

expanse of humanity's

madness. It has always been thus.

And when they whistle, as they always do: the elite

who endure the tedium to sit on others

to inform them that they are fortunate

to have such betters.

They, the elite, follow all the words to all the songs

but never quite in time or rhythm:

Karaoke knives: unsheathed for the proletariat to tolerate,

Follow the dross into no-man's land,

witnessed by The Sanity of Children

before the flood of doctrines spouted

as freedom by their jailors.

All the while the proletariat misunderstand,

the understandable, and become entrenched

not fooled by a democratic wishbone

casst asside, assured that 

the futility of obedience continues

Poet's Bio:

No education as such.

No university; hard drinker,

harder on tobacco, sailor, factory lass, dross

who is often told by the elite that she opens her mouth too much

but will say to them whatever she wants. Publsihed.