The day will come when research clinics,
cosmetic shops, laboratories,
sewers and landfill sites will open
and give up those whom no one sees.
They'll rise and march against the living:
unborn, undead and unforgiving!

A host of billions, all the children
who never saw the light of day
will be emerging from the refuse
around the world, come out to play
and wreak their vengeance on the living:
unborn, undead and unforgiving!

Armed with the instruments that killed them,
all those unwanted will condemn
their foe and do unto their mothers
what once their mothers did to them,
an army dreaded by the living:
unborn, undead and unforgiving!

We're sorry we've been too busy working,
inventing, designing, producing, promoting,
selling or repairing dishwashers, washing machines,
tumble and hair dryers, microwaves and disposable nappies
in order to assuage your terrible lot,

We're sorry we've been too busy creating
the fashions that find your approval,
the kissproof lipstick and the tearproof mascara,
the one-night dye and the reddest nail polish,

We're sorry we've been too busy with our careers,
trying to catch up with your material needs,
bullying each other on the way to the top
in professions that we detest and despise
but that we'll perform until our dying year,

We're sorry we've been too busy writing,
staging and broadcasting the soaps you like
to keep you entertained from dawn till sunset,

We're sorry we've been too busy mowing the lawn,
digging the weeds and fixing the car,
mending the pipes and laying the carpet,
painting the walls and carrying home your shopping,

We're sorry we've been too busy killing and dying
in the wars of the nations, attempting to secure
and to enhance the lifestyle you're used to,

We're sorry we've been too busy making the money you spend
to take part in your struggle against male domination.

Five Neanderthals were sitting
round the pit and smiled, for who
doesn't love the smell of birch tar
while it's steaming and brand-new?

Eagerly they filled their noses,
sharing, since they felt at ease,
observations of green lions,
flying boars and walking trees.

One took out his flute, another
asked him with a funny stare,
'Do you see those mammoths dancing
on their hind legs to your air?'

'I will get them,' said another,
short of breath, 'I'll wait no more:
I will kill the woolly mammoth
using my bare hands!' he swore.

All the others burst out laughing
and he answered with a pout
when the curtains of the grotto
parted and their wives came out.

'Will you ever stop your sniffing?'
they rebuked the cheerful bunch.
'While the glue is hot, you better
fix your spears and hunt our lunch.'

Finegas, the famous poet,
guardian of Fionn mac Cumhaill,
burnt with a desire for knowledge
every coming thought would fuel.

He kept fishing for the creature
who knew all since time began,
for the salmon who could summon
all the knowledge known to man.

It was caught by Fionn one morning,
and he brought it eagerly
to his mentor as it wondered,
'What will now become of me?'

'I will feed you shrimps and herring
for as long as you should last;
in return I'll use your knowledge
for my studies of the past.'

'And you'll pass it off as yours then,
like the poems that you took
from the desk of your late mentor.'
Finegas felt like a crook.

So he told his ward to gently
cook the salmon with a touch
of his homegrown coriander,
for the salmon knew too much.

The sergeant got a call, 'This is
Officer Hill; I went
up to the protest, but there was
a horrid accident.

'I don't know what to do,' he sobbed,
his voice was close to tears.
The sergeant answered, 'Now there, there,
tell me what grinds your gears.'

'I fired a shot into the air,
just to disperse the crowd,
and one of them dropped dead; I fear
my mum will not be proud.'

'Just keep your calm,' the sergeant said,
'and do not lose your head;
the first thing you should do, young man,
is making sure he's dead.'

After a short but poignant pause
the sergeant heard a shot.
The officer, back on the phone,
asked him, 'All right. Now what?'

After the show the metal singer
jumped on his Harley for a ride.
A lorry forced him to the side;
he prayed, but God gave him the finger,
and so the singer crashed and died.

Police arrived and closely studied
the clues that had been left around
the scene, and somewhere on the ground,
abandoned and extremely bloodied,
the severed finger of God was found.

The glover's son had great ambitions
and future plans he didn't hide.
'I'll be a playwright and an actor,'
he told his father, full of pride.

'Quit dreaming, this is not a steady
career on which you should embark,
but I've secured you a position
in Marlowe's Spices as a clerk.'

So William Shakespeare got a day job
and kept accounts day in, day out,
while in his head he made up stories
of kings and heroes, trust and doubt.

Once his employer checked his notes and
read out, '"To be or not to be" -
what does that mean?' - 'It's an idea
I have to write a tragedy.' -

'I'm paying you for your accounting,
not to write plays or marching tunes;
you've time to scribble in the evenings,
the nights and Sunday afternoons.'

So William worked and spent the evenings
with wife and children, and he'd keep
his writing to a few short verses
after the children went to sleep.

And on his fifty-second birthday
he met with friends to celebrate,
but later, with one ale too many,
William collapsed and met his fate.

The priest said at his grave, 'We're grieving
today with this man's family
who lost their husband and their father,
a man of great integrity.

'He was a generous provider
who had a way with words and ink;
in his spare time he did some writing,
played billiards and enjoyed a drink.'

He walked across the fairground, and his face
lit up when he, with quite a sense of mission,
spotted a tent in which a competition
for Charlie Chaplin lookalikes took place.

He stepped inside and did the slapstick walk
which, struggling with the force of gravitation,
was followed by the walk of desperation
he rendered sadly like a lovelorn gawk.

But long before most of the other men
who had performed, he was eliminated,
an outcome he had not anticipated,
so Charlie Chaplin stepped outside again.

And he concluded as he left the fair,
'Being yourself won't get you anywhere.'

'I brought you into this world, I can take you out.'
- MARVIN GAY SR

The Prince of Motown spent his lifetime
seeking for one however small
sign of approval from his father
who'd never spared the rod at all.

Since he had made it, he had gifted
a house, a Cadillac for thrills
and a revolver to his father;
on top of that he paid the bills.

But the sadistic church minister
remained indifferent to his child
who was so desperate to please him
and never thanked him, never smiled.

Once, trying to protect his mother,
Marvin faced yet one more attack
from him, and for the first time ever
the son decided to fight back.

The stupefied old man desisted;
he left the room, and with the gun
Marvin had given him for Christmas
he came back in and shot his son.

A decade later his surviving
children decided to appear
and celebrate his 80th birthday
in an uneasy atmosphere.

Carefully Frankie muttered under
his breath, crooning it like a song,
'For everyone who died too early
there's someone who hangs on too long.'

'This is the crowning moment of my life,'
John Montagu exclaimed, and since he had
no chance to dine, he asked for sliced white bread
and for a sirloin roast, no fork nor knife.

'Negotiations are concluded, hence
the war between the British and the French
ends here in Breda where the showers drench
our coats but not our will to make new friends.

'This is what I will be remembered for!'
the Earl of Sandwich felt the need to boast,
and with a gleeful smile he tucked his roast
between two slices as he stopped the war.

At Doright's annual all-staff party, hampers
with bacon, sausages, pork loin and bread
were handed out to all with the exception
of Seth and Ahmed who got cheese instead.
Seth raged, 'Because I'm Jewish you assume
that I'm religious? God, the degradation!'
And while the other staff enjoyed themselves
Seth sued his bosses for discrimination.

The year that followed they had learned their lesson
(or so they thought) and gave, advertently,
regardless of their names and ethnic background,
pork hampers to each single employee.
When management announced the welcome news
the company's continuing success meant
they'd keep all employees, the workers cheered
and Ahmed sued his bosses for harassment.

With his trusting flock in the morning
the good shepherd sets out to seek
a green pasture on which they'll be grazing,
and he'll let them drink from the creek.

And he tells them a bedtime story
when at night they are going to sleep
of the paradise that awaits them,
and he then bids good night to his sheep.

And he sees them again at Easter
when the village meets under the trees
and prepares them upon a table
in the sight of their enemies.

When it was Emma's bedtime,
mum tucked her in before
she told the well-known story
of the Lost Sheep once more.

'A shepherd had a hundred
sheep, and when one got lost
he didn't rest until he
retrieved it at all cost.

'Why do you think the little
sheep left his company
and that of all the others?' -
'She wanted to be free!'

'No, sheep don't look for freedom;
it just had lost its way,
and so the shepherd searched for
the one that went astray.

'Why do you think it mattered,
since ninety-nine were left?' -
'She was his Sunday dinner
of which he was bereft.'

'No, it's because he loved it
he went out in the cold
to find the sheep and safely
return it to the fold.

'If only one is missing,
Jesus will make a fuss:
the good Lord is our shepherd,
and he loves all of us.'

But Emma told her mother
before she went to sleep,
'The Lord is not my shepherd,
because I'm not a sheep!'

Briareus had found, against all odds,
the Stygian Bull; to sacrifice its guts
would give its slaughterer, no ifs and buts,
the awesome power to defeat the gods.

The hero faced its anger and its large
sharp horns, its flaring nostrils and dark eyes;
unwilling to accept its near demise,
it stamped its hooves in readiness to charge.

But its undaunted foe refused to take
it as a threat or even as a dare
and carried on, for he was well aware
that it was half a bull and half a snake.

Thus, lacking hind legs for stability,
it met its end, and quite ungracefully.

The Antizeus has come to us
to lead mankind away
from Father Zeus whose love for man
and gods will never sway.

Born of a platypus, he has
fulfilled the prophecy
that he would be emerging from
the world of zoology.

Zoo keepers raised him in their home,
so no one else could find
him; now he's fully grown and will
try to destroy mankind.

With pow'r from Cronus he'll perform
great miracles to show
that he commands all worldly things,
and soon his clout will grow.

He'll teach that Zeus does not exist
and tempt his flock and more
to follow false and wicked gods
like Vishnu, Christ and Thor.

His body bears, concealed, a mark.
Now here is wisdom since
the red inverted thunderbolt
his nature will evince.

And all of his disciples he'll
initiate with coal
and burn his mark upon their palm,
their bottom or their sole.

He'll conquer nations, one by one,
and, while Zeus' anger grows,
against Olympus they will march,
the Father to depose.

No guns can harm him and no swords,
no guillotine or noose:
a golden eagle, nothing else,
can kill the Antizeus.

His reign of terror will commence
when Athens he devours
and last eight years, four months, five days
and fourteen and half hours.

But then, with thunderbolts and lightning,
on rage Zeus will embark
and cast him into Tartarus
with those who bear his mark.

And Zeus will then reclaim his throne
to govern gods and men;
after the debris is cleaned up,
all will be well again.

Our voyage soon will end, and we'll return
to Rhodes after we sold our famous wine
in Alexandria, and now we yearn
to see our families and to recline.

The destination of our journey nears;
we watch intently as beneath our prow's
rail the colossus finally appears,
open the last amphorae and carouse.

The skies have cleared, and with a gentle gale
we reach the sailor's most familiar mark:
when Helios' balls hang high above our sail,
we cheer and then prepare to disembark.

Just a few fathoms left, we gladly spread
oblations in the Mediterranean foam,
the sun god's shiny scrotum overhead,
enter Rhodes Harbour and arrive back home.

A nation state of lepers woke that morn,
disfigured bodies overspread with odd
festering boils who wished they'd ne'er been born;
another plague straight from the Hebrew god.

So Pharaoh who'd been plagued himself decreed
in a pronouncement spread throughout the land
that all the Israelites were to be freed
at once which wasn't what the Lord had planned.

Thus when he heard about it, God got mad
at the unpredictable Egyptian king,
turned to Archangel Gabriel and said,
'This guy is going to mess up everything!'

'He only used,' was Gabriel's retort,
'his own free will which you bestowed on man.' -
'Fuck his free will! I cannot let him thwart
my carefully concocted master plan.'

And so he hardened Pharaoh's heart who now
thought letting Moses' people go was wrong
and thus revoked his orders anyhow
so God could send the other plagues along.

The disciples met in Joseph's
house who had the table laid
to commemorate the selfless
sacrifice their Saviour made.

Mary stormed into the meeting
and dispersed her brethren's gloom,
'He has risen! He has risen!
There's no body in the tomb!'

'That's great news,' said Joseph, smiling.
'Sure, the Lord is homeward bound,'
and he sliced the meat for supper,
and he passed the chalice round.

Everyone was in good spirits
until John looked at his fork
as he chewed and asked politely,
'Surely you're not serving pork?'

Simon Peter took the chalice,
drank and smashed it with a thud,
turned around and barked at Joseph,
'That's not wine, Joe! This is blood!'

'Do you not remember, brethren,
what our Saviour said before?
Eat my flesh and drink my blood, and
you shall live for evermore!

'He has given us his dogma,
we're supposed to live by it!
Hold on, I'll just put another
juicy femur on the spit...'

They say their God came down to Earth,
became a man and gave them
eternal life the day he died
upon the cross to save them.
How do you think they treat the man
who died for them and one day
will bring them to his paradise?
They eat him on a Sunday.

He taught his humble fellowmen
the easy-to-infer fact
that not a person in this world
except himself is perfect.
They are forgiven once a week
and sin again on Monday;
as for the man who saved their souls,
they eat him on a Sunday.

Their ancestors were primitive,
and human sacrifices
were fried or barbecued and served
with native herbs and spices.
But then came Christ, and now they are
more civilised - their fun day
is when, unseasoned and uncooked,
they eat him on a Sunday.

The truth is older than mankind. Her youth
had gone before; the agèd spinster will
live out the winter of her life where still
nobody wants to see the naked truth.

Can you imagine her remaining tooth,
her shrivelled flesh exposing every bruise,
her saggy breasts as she puts on her shoes?
Nobody wants to see the naked truth.

The whipping post of reason
still hasn't seen a day
throughout the human season
his victim stayed away.

He's punished for distracting
the crowd from dogma's bliss
and plainly disrespecting
the lords of the abyss.

Since those whose most enduring
wrath reason has incurred
can't kill him, they're ensuring
at least he can't be heard.

Each dawn he's gagged and tightly
bound by the prison guard
who then quite impolitely
leads him into the yard.

As time aloofly passes,
the whippings get more grim,
meant to prevent the masses
from listening to him.

The crowd will be elated
when he sinks in the mud;
the whipping post who'll hate it
again will taste his blood.

And now he'll find a brother
at last since his uncouth
masters erect another:
the whipping post of truth.

Fear not the truth! He holds no power
over today's society
where evidence and facts are smirked at
and reason is the enemy.

Fear not the truth! His scattered remnants
leave nothing you would have to fear
since his declining reputation
will, any day now, disappear.

Fear not the truth! The latest forecast
of his tomorrow sounds quite grim,
and in as little as a decade
nobody will remember him.

Welcome to our Antisocial Skills
Training. In this module you will learn
to be more efficient through no-frills
conversations, never to concern
your officious self with others' stuff,
not to be afraid to disagree
with the herd (although it may be tough)
or a person in authority,
to resist the pressure from your peers,
groupthink, group dynamics and the urge
to conform despite the ugly sneers
from the masses and instead diverge
from the norm, to look at facts and not
blindly trust what others claim, to speak
truth when inconvenient, to spot
everything uncommon and unique,
to remain objective and to think
for yourself, to rise and boldly go
where nobody ventured, not to shrink
and to controvert the status quo.

She ruled us with an iron hand,
and now we've had it, took her crown,
her whips and chains, and we all stand
together as we tie her down,
and then we'll line up eagerly
to sodomise Conformity.

She is afraid of everything
that's different or improved or new,
thus keeping Status Quo, her king,
in power still, but now we queue
behind the cursed queen with glee
to sodomise Conformity.

She killed all those who didn't fit
into her narrow mind, so we
are taking turns, enjoying it,
to sodomise Conformity,
thus making sure that when she's gone
her line will not continue on.

Knights in white satin,
always shunning the day,
letters they've written
come down to a K.

They love the darkness,
wear the blood drop and cross
dress to kill ruthlessly,
and they'll show you who's boss.

And they love it,
yes they love it,
oh how they love it!

Like evil fairies
they emerge from the woods,
grown-ups that dress up
in white robes and white hoods.

Sometimes I wonder
what these terrible knights
wear underneath it -
is it stockings or tights?

And they love it,
yes they love it,
oh how they love it!

'This war, like the next war, is a war to end war' - David Lloyd George, 1916

When hundred years ago the trenches filled
with soldiers first, and with their corpses then,
there was a notion nevermore again
could there be war, nor that much blood be spilt.

The War to End All Wars would tomb the sword
and end in a new order of evolved
countries, their conflicts peacefully resolved
at the round table or the drawing board.

You know how well that went. Their magic spells
have failed us, and their battles didn't cease;
today all nations of the world want peace,
albeit according to their terms, or else...

Thus armament producer, xenophobe,
cleric, tycoon and head of state agree,
commemorating the centenary
with multifarious wars around the globe.

A rabid dog proclaiming the decried
doctrine of bigotry with drooling jaw
has always led the way to genocide,
defying common sense and common law.

It's shunned at daytime, but when evening sets
in, the vile echoes of its barking call
to people's soft subconscious which begets
the most destructive monster of them all.

For all the carnage that's unleashed on man
is not committed by the openly
mad dog; the villain is none other than
the listless monster of conformity.

'I want it, and I want it now!'
the delegates heard their leader rant.
'To heat our factories and homes,
I want my nuclear power plant!'

But her advisors tried to point
out, as they had so often tried
before, that due to risks and costs
the plant could not be justified.

'I do not want us to depend
on filthy Arabs, and much less
on those unruly miners who
left our economy in a mess!

'If global cooling brings that ice age
we fear, we have to hit the brakes
now, and we shan't be held to ransom
by union bosses and by sheikhs.'

'The climate change has now reversed -
over the past two years the Earth
got slightly warmer, and that trend
seems to remain, for all it's worth.'

'Then that must be the CO2
that we emit - it should be banned!'
The scientists laughed out, 'Just like
that raindrop that sank Doggerland.'

'If we could prove that it is so,'
the Prime Minister kept her calm,
'then all our problems could be solved
by raising the global warming alarm.

'There'd be new products and new jobs
reducing levels, we could tax
all CO2-emitting fuels,
and we'd get Greenpeace off our backs.

'There's an entire industry
to be developed while we shan't
forget the science to support it,
and I could get my nuclear plant!'

So Andrew Wakefield got the patent
for his own vaccine; a heart'ning sign,
but there's a hurdle: the existing
vaccine is working fine.

To slam it, he composed a paper,
claiming that it caused Crohn's disease;
that claim was very soon refuted,
but Wakefield didn't cease.

Taking advantage of the needless
panic that swept the world by storm,
he now alleged it caused autism,
remaining true to form.

Parents refused to have their children
protected by vaccines, and so
children are dying of diseases
defeated long ago.

Though scientists disproved his findings
and found his methods to be slick,
unscientific and abusive,
he still makes people tick.

Struck off the register, dishonoured,
the world of science saw him gone,
but in the deaths of countless children
his legacy lives on.

Do not go down that road, my child!
That's no respectable career;
you would be hated and reviled
for spreading misery and fear.
Though it may seem like easy money
the consequences won't be funny.

You'd live on others' hard-earned pay,
extorting money from the poor,
you'd break up homes, and you'd betray
those trusting you whom you abhor.
You'd be insulted, shunned and highly
despised despite the life of Reilly.

You'd snub the vulnerable which
depend on you whom once you knew,
be at the mercy of your rich
superiors whose bidding you
must do, regardless of the morals
you may have left, to earn your laurels.

And we will not have anything
to do with you if you should see
it through; think twice before you bring
dishonour on our family
and live with hatred and suspicion;
do not become a politician!

'Your dirty mind has seen us
for what we are, quite plain;
we'll take you to the cleaners,
and there we'll wash your brain!'

Each night, to vex the ones they scoff
and play a game called 'straining scum',
the misoplebeian horde rides off
to raid the people in the slum.
They'd storm into their homes to eat
and take whatever they can find:
their food, their blankets and their peat;
their mission is to rob them blind.

And anyone who dares complain
that he is driven to the brink
is dragged outside and feels the cane
before he's told, 'Your people stink!
You all are rotten selfish brats:
you breathe our air, ungrateful grumps,
you drink our lake and eat our rats,
and then your corpses fill our dumps!'

The misoplebeian horde then rides
back home to their estates to rule
the country, to oblige their brides
or sip martinis by the pool.
But each quadrennial they face
a fleeting period of grief
when they are entering the race
as slum dwellers elect the chief.

At first many a gobshite cries,
'Things will get better in my grip!'
and then the country's topshite tries
to hold on to his leadership.
'This is no time for change,' he'd say.
'If I stay chief, I'll reimburse
those who were wronged - just stay away
from these, because they'll rob you worse!'

Sometimes a slum dweller may run
for chiefdom, but there is a cure:
the misoplebeians sling for fun
a spoonful of some bull's manure
at him and say in disbelief,
pointing at him whom they estrange,
'Do you want him to be your chief?'
ensuring things will never change.

One day somebody who had worked
his way up from the slum to be
a misoplebeian with a murked
sense of belonging asked with glee,
'Why don't we exile them? Those scabs
have no possessions, class or skills!' -
'Have you gone mad? We need the plebs
to do our work and pay our bills!'

Capitalism, as they say, creates
a better world for our society
through competition, freedom and the right
to choose from an immense variety.

How beneficial capitalism is
to humankind can easily be seen
in supermarkets where we buy our food,
in restaurants and in your firm's canteen.

To maximise their profit, they prepare
and stock more food than needed; then, bar none,
the rest goes to the skip, prevented by
security from feeding anyone.

This wastage is imperative for them,
as anyone with eyes can plainly see,
because of course they'd sell a little less
if they left out the out-of-dates for free.

The food that's wasted in the Western World
could feed this planet several times a day:
world hunger is a necessary part
of our beloved capitalistic way.

Fear not the dead! They're dead now, the slaves you raised by hand,
the ones you starved for profit, the ones you killed for land.
But while your former victims are dead and buried deep,
the spirits of the living will haunt you in your sleep!

In daylight they obey you and do as you compel,
but when you both are sleeping they rise against their hell,
revealing without mercy the beast within the sheep:
the spirits of the living will haunt you in your sleep!

You get up in the morning and brush your dreams away
as do your listless subjects, for in the light of day
the spirits of the living retire, and for your sake
you better keep on praying that they may never wake!

Did you feel the economy booming,
did you see the GDP rise
to new heights and the profits blooming
in our billionaires' paradise?

This good news, I am certain, will thrill you,
feed your struggling children and spouse,
calm the service providers who bill you
and pay for your healthcare and house.

The orchestra reached the finale,
and the brass players' volume soared
in an apocalyptic crescendo
as they stretched out the very last chord,
and the player who had remained silent
until now will eventually ring
in the end of this evening's performance
as we'll hear the triangle go 'ting'.

This planet's self-declared owners
whose actions we fail to condemn
treat the world as a cornucopia
with unbounded resources for them.
We still watch the Earth being plundered,
and we still hear the fat lady sing,
but I'm certain it cannot be long now
until nature's triangle goes 'ting'.

A disconnected chandelier,
regardless of the brevity
of the event, will fall, and here
is wisdom, for the cavity
or crater that it will create
must question its longevity,
so do not underestimate
the gravity of gravity.

What has propelled itself by mere
self-service and depravity,
such as the ruling class, must fear
the coming crash; their levity
won't ease their fall nor will their state
of permanent insuavity,
so never underestimate
the gravity of gravity.

When it saw that in the hurry
its right shoe was on the left
foot, the truth began to worry
since its nemesis was deft,
and the world enjoyed a snooze
while the truth put on its shoes.

It corrected their position,
and it held the tongue to trace
back the cord in one big mission
to untangle the knotted lace,
and the world enjoyed a snooze
while the truth put on its shoes.

Then it spent another while at
it to feed the lace back in,
noticed it had missed an eyelet
and went back and scratched its chin,
and the world enjoyed a snooze
while the truth put on its shoes.

The procedure was repeated
with the left, the knots tied tight,
and it uttered, unconceited,
'First I had to get it right.'
And the world enjoyed a snooze
while the truth put on its shoes.

When the truth, now good and ready,
stepped outside with facts to share,
its opponent had already
staked its claims out everywhere,
for the world enjoyed a snooze
while the truth put on its shoes.

It was an August night in Barcelona.
A weak old man limped forward in despair;
the ice cracked heavily beneath his footsteps
as he approached the fire lit in the square.

The others let him through to warm his body.
'Thank you for that! I wish that I had been
born hundred years before my time to witness
the heydays of the joyful Holocene.'

'What is a Holocene?' somebody asked him,
a dimwitted expression on his face.
'A metal band, another word for acid,
or just the name of some exotic place?'

'It was a short eventful interglacial
in which most of the ice had thawed away;
the Holocene gave birth to modern humans
and slowly made us what we are today.

'Our rivers and our lakes were never frozen,
not even in this northern latitude,
the Pyrenees entirely free of glaciers,
and people everywhere grew crops for food.

'The countryside was green and full of wildlife,
and even in the city flowers bloomed,
tall trees were growing all along La Rambla,
but now the ice has all of them entombed.

'The summers were so warm that people sweated
and wore no coats nor scarves this time of year;
they lay near naked in the parks, on beaches
and cooled themselves with ice cream or cold beer.

'Sweet Holocene! My grandpa used to tell me
about the last few years when gradually
the ice returned and in some decades covered
the hills and plains as far as one could see.'

Of course this is a glimpse into the future
in which once more the Quaternary casts
her icy chills, so let's, with merry spirits,
enjoy the interglacial while it lasts.

Like shifting sands in the desert
are the souls of the slaves. Some now call
for a big revolution to free us,
but believe me, we slaves are too small.
- Now hush, little darling, and sleep.

It's true that most slaves are compliant,
but not all remain silent; equipped
with a voice, many offer resistance
by screaming out loud when they're whipped.
- Now hush, little darling, and sleep.

But we do not fight back when we're punished,
for under their stringent regime
our authoritarian masters
may even forbid us to scream.
- Now hush, little darling, and sleep.

So you shouldn't rise up against them
lest they catch you and make you repent!
Instead you should ask them for freedom;
and if they say No, be content.
- Now hush, little darling, and sleep.

Be docile and don't climb their fences
and trust them, whatever they say,
and if you obey, you might even
become overseer one day.
- Now hush, little darling, and sleep.

You don't have the right to perturb us
with demands so extreme and bizarre:
your courage is heartless and treason
for exposing what cowards we are.
- Now hush, little darling, and sleep.

And if we were given our freedom
and managed to leave this hell
with all of our kin and belongings:
who'd be there to feed us, pray tell?
- Now hush, little darling, and sleep.

The slaves in the field are enduring
more hardships; when they, in their plight,
kill the overseers who wrong them,
they may even be in the right.
- Now hush, little darling, and sleep.

But we slaves in the house of the master
have all that a slave could desire:
we have regular working hours,
a bed and a place by the fire.
- Now hush, little darling, and sleep.

Stay away from all those who urge changes,
from the rebels' base plots and their schemes,
and the god who made slaves for his pastime
only curse in your thoughts and your dreams.
- Now hush, little darling, and sleep.

(inspired by Ulrike Meinhof's open letter to her foster mother)

We're assured if we hold out demurely,
though past centuries heard the same call,
that capitalism will surely
eventually benefit all.

When our lawmakers lower their prices,
when the sky is cut into plots
and pi into even slices,
when the sunrays get tied up in knots,

Proper news is reported by Reuters,
when reality comes to renown,
the wealth of the men who exploit us
at last will come trickling down.

Once Teddy Roosevelt went a-hunting
in Mississippi with the boys;
while all the others got their bearskins,
he had no luck and lost his poise.

To make the president feel better
and offer him a victory,
the guides chased down a bear next morning
and tied him to a willow tree.

Their deed went unappreciated
and put the president to shame,
'Your sense of sportsmanship is wanting -
you lads should know this is no game!'

He pointed out with disapproval
while looking at the guides askance
that, other than a human native,
a bear deserves a sporting chance.

Will the wolf who cried boy learn his lesson
when his hide serves as rug by the fire
and the rest sells at Delicatessen
where the hunter and salesman conspire?

Will he see at the close of existence
that, while letting his guard down that day,
the small figure he spied in the distance
seemed so small 'cause it stood far away?

So the wolf who was turned into vittle
shows as much as a head on a pike
that the dangers we tend to belittle
are disasters most likely to strike.

The day that he was captured Che Guevara
was tied up in a mud school to confess;
the prisoner requested a short meeting
with the schoolmistress, Julia Cortez.

'You have this dump, and they have their Mercedes -
if they spent less, you'd have a little more.
Those men can do without their status symbols,
and that's exactly what we're fighting for!'

When Che was killed, before they dumped his body,
a CIA man took his watch, aware
that one day this would be a priced possession:
though Che is gone, his Rolex is still there.

The sheep were grazing in the field
when some of them approached their peers,
'This is about the guy who shears
our fleece, and this must be revealed!

'Do not believe his solemn vows
that he just wants what's best for us;
when we've grown up, without much fuss,
he'll send us to the slaughterhouse!'

'How dare you utter such a thing?
The next time could you spare us please
your old conspiracy theories
and chew your grass and wait for spring.'

'These are some pictures where they slit
the throats of sheep before they're bled
and cut to pieces; we'll be dead
if we don't run away from it!'

'They're photoshopped; you know quite well
no sheep hangs from its hooves like this!
The shepherd loves us, and it is
slander to tell the tales you tell!'

While all the docile sheep just frowned,
all the seditious sheep left home
and went outside the gate to roam
the forests and the fields around.

The docile sheep are now interred
in shepherd's pies, on sale for cheap,
while all the free seditious sheep
remain unherded and unheard.

I'm black - so what? Diversity is nothing
to be ashamed of. I shan't let you keep
your uninformed opinions; do you really
think that my colour makes me less of a sheep?

You say you sympathise and look for treatments;
I need appreciation and not cures.
I'm happy; when our fields get cold in winter,
my fleece absorbs more of the sun than yours.

And when, while you are getting sheared in springtime,
due to my colour I am left in peace,
do I not feel your anguish and allow you
to warm your trembling bodies at my fleece?

Still you insist that I become like others
and don't stand out in your community.
An all-white flock is colourless and boring,
and I see nothing wrong with being me.

Bleat all you want, I shall not bleach my woolfell
to fit your standards, and I feel no shame:
you laugh at me because I am so different;
I laugh at you because you're all the same.

(Inspired by the Jonathan Davis quote)

When Alfred Russel Wallace wrote
to his friend Charles, suggesting
how species may emerge and showed
it could be proved by testing,

His evolutionary idea
by Darwin wasn't doubted;
he had, now for the twentieth year,
worked on a book about it.

A presentation was prepared
by scientists of a feather,
and Wallace and Charles Darwin shared
its authorship together.

The moral of the story (you
may find it chauvinistic):
great minds do think alike, it's true,
because they are autistic.

Professor Meantwell found a cure
for autism that could
eradicate the feared condition
from humankind for good.

He also had a time machine
which he had learned to fly;
he took the potion and some nuts
and baked them in a pie.

He travelled back through space and time
and finally beheld
the cavern where the primal group
of modern humans dwelled.

A bunch of hairy cavefolk stared
at him, and when they saw
the flashlight he took out, they shrieked
and dropped their jaws in awe.

He gave them each a slice of pie
which (without fork, I guess)
was eagerly devoured; he deemed
his mission a success.

But when he flew his time machine
through dark foreboding skies
back to the present, he was in
for quite a big surprise:

A bunch of hairy cavefolk stared
at him, and when they saw
the flashlight he took out, they shrieked
and dropped their jaws in awe.

'It seems that for success in science or art a dash of autism is essential.' - Hans Asperger

'What would happen if the autism gene was eliminated from the gene pool?
You would have a bunch of people standing around in a cave, chatting and socializing and not getting anything done.' - Temple Grandin

Karoo sat in the corner
from sunrise until dark,
he banged two stones together
and waited for the spark.

While all the other children
played hide and seek outside,
he didn't feel like seeking
and didn't want to hide.

The adults kept on talking
while sitting in a row
and eating food they'd gathered
from underneath the snow.

His father once went over
and asked the boy, 'What good
is it to play with flintstones
and branches and dry wood?'

'I'm trying to light a fire,
like that after the storm
in which we found the burning
tree branch that kept us warm.'

'What makes you think that banging
two stones will light a fire
like thunderstorms are doing?'
the father did enquire.

'I saw it at a rockfall
beside the little pit:
one rock dropped on another,
and a small spark was lit.'

'Good luck,' his father told him,
returning to his peers
to whom he told the story:
Karoo could see their sneers.

Karoo sat in the corner
from sunrise until dark,
he banged two stones together
and waited for the spark.

One day he saw a little
bright spark that lit the wood,
and soon the pile was burning
away the way it should.

The others gathered round him,
brought kindling and admired
his patience and his talent
and that he never tired.

Karoo was celebrated
and lauded by the lot,
'Come sit with us, we'll give you
the best of what we've got!'

He said, 'I'm far too busy,
I won't neglect my chore:
we'll need a fire more often,
I need to practise more.'

Karoo sat in the corner
from sunrise until dark,
he banged two stones together
and waited for the spark.

There is a box for politicians
(which prolly should be dumped or burnt),
there is a box for the accountants
with inventory, or so I learned.

There is a sable box for clergy
as well which slowly gathers dust,
there is a box for secretaries
where current fashions are discussed.

There is a box for lots of different
inhabitants. Without a doubt
this is the box for wayward autists:
here we fit in by standing out!

A farmer had a moo cow,
her cover made of silk;
each morning he'd be drinking
a pint of Betsy's milk.

He generously fed her,
and she fed him; in leats
the milk of bovine kindness
was flowing through her teats.

His bread was richly buttered
and topped with lots of cheese,
and in return he offered
his cow a life of ease.

Her barn had central heating,
and she was free to go
outside whene'er she wanted;
the farmer loved her so.

The evenings saw him eating
custard and cream and sweets;
the milk of bovine kindness
was flowing through her teats.

As she was growing older
and strived to go to bed
on concrete ground, the farmer
put blankets in her shed.

But now he lives on beefsteak
instead of dairy treats;
the milk of bovine kindness
ceased flowing through her teats.

The dinosaurs were gone. A lonely little primate
sat on a nut tree branch, not knowing what to do;
he had no predator to fear now, and the climate
had changed - since then the bushes, trees and flowers grew
taller and rendered an abundance of nutritious
fruits, leaves and berries, and our primate, as he glowed,
already had too many of these most delicious
nuts: 'Just one more,' he pondered, 'and I shall explode!

'What can I do now that I'm full? Perhaps some climbing?'
But moving was no option since he felt he'd burst.
Another primate darted up the tree; his timing
proved crucial for their order. The firstcomer's first
impulse was to chase off the trespasser whose greater
hunger had caused him to take chances and intrude
upon his territory, but a second later
he realised his tree could feed a multitude.

Besides, he thought, some company might bring distraction,
and so he told the other, 'You should try to eat
a nut together with a leaf - pure satisfaction!
Where are you from?' The other told him his complete
life story, followed by his sisters' and his brothers'.
They talked about their families, the weather and
whatever came to mind. Soon they were joined by others,
and from that day their size would constantly expand.

One smitten primate wooed a primatesse by gifting
her birds' nests with the nuts he'd gathered from the tree;
another primate shouted, hoping to be shifting
the girl's attention, 'Look, my nuts are bigger! See?'
There were manipulation, envy, competition,
cliquishness, bragging, shaming, many vicious fights
over the nuts though they sufficed for all, ambition
to rule the tree and other unitive delights.

And so the lonely little primate held the planet's
first gathering of primates and made many a friend;
the throng caught on, and sociability began its
conquest of yet another order as a trend.
Thus boredom was the root of their addictive passion
for social interaction which would soon ensnarl
the lot; the primates who resisted this obsession
were the orangutan and the Neanderthal.

They eat all things they can get hold of
and know no manners and no shame,
they urinate at every corner
they pass to stake their petty claim.

By making noise to wake a graveyard,
the poor neglected creatures try
to gain attention by annoying
the neighbours and the passers-by.

They jump around like they've been bitten
by fleas or demons, though they may
prove that they're clever by retrieving
the things that others throw away.

They stick their nose in all excreta
that others dropped in any place,
then they're returning to their owner,
sit up and lick their hand and face.

Each one of them has done and tasted
the sickest, vilest thing there is:
as God has made man in his image,
man has created dog in his.

Anyone who hates dogs [...] can't be all bad.
- W.C. Fields

'Twas the most pleasant of all noons
within the perfect dream. That day
the larks were heard, the footpaths clean,
and all the playgrounds safe for play.

We celebrated in the streets,
embraced and sang for all it's worth,
and everyone rejoiced, 'The dogs,
the dogs have vanished from this Earth!'

The barking ceased - in peaceful parks
again we heard the joyful birds,
and those who walk no longer walked
a slalom round the smelly turds.

The air was light and life was good.
The children ventured out and then
reclaimed their playgrounds, knowing they
would never be attacked again.

Nobody knew, of all the vets
and experts who were unprepared,
how all this planet's dogs had died
within one night, and no one cared.

But I examined several dogs
to have this miracle unfurled
and bring the recipe along
for testing in the real world.

Yet I woke up before I solved
the canicide's sweet mystery
because my neighbour's mutt had barked
me back into reality.

Jonas just lived for his profession,
nothing could ever rob
him of his eagerness and passion:
a man who loved his job.

The love that never is requited
had set his heart aglow,
and overtime left him delighted,
he loved his workplace so.

He grew increasingly excited
about the love that used,
the love that never is requited
yet never is refused.

To him his paycheque was a bonus,
as we can clearly see:
'twas merely for the perks that Jonas
worked in the mortuary.

A chimney is a hole surrounded
by bricks or concrete, built up high;
it may be square or may be rounded,
connecting dwellings to the sky.

Hot air that's rising from the fireplace
ascends the chimney, and from there
it travels further to a high'r place
and disappears into thin air.

Without the chimney's operations
hot air cannot escape, and hence
it isn't built in TV stations,
churches and halls of parliaments.

When visiting the Miocene
in North Australia, my dear child,
remember many unforeseen
dangers are lurking in the wild.

There's a particularly grim
example of Anatidae:
a duck that doesn't fly nor swim
but roams the forests hunting prey.

At eight feet tall, it's understood,
five hundred pounds of feathered greed
will chase you through the ancient wood:
the demon duck of doom must feed!

So when you innocently rove
the woods and stumble o'er a knag
and hear a quack from yonder grove,
best leave your breadcrumbs in the bag.

Our destiny remains unsure
until our fate unfolds,
but one thing that I know for sure
is what the future holds.

The future holds a .44
and points it at my back,
'Don't move until I've shut the door
behind me with a smack!'

He finds his targets on the net
and leaves his opponents pale:
he focusses and aims and shoots
and claims his reward without fail.
But if a neighbour needs his help,
he'll say 'One favour owed!'
and do the job wholly free of charge,
the odd hitman across the road.

He mostly sticks to his own rough crowd,
all rowdies through and through,
but every now and then he might
take out a young girl, too.
You can see him practise on the lawn
of his most humble abode
amongst the plentiful mounds and knolls,
the odd hitman across the road.

He's one of those guys with bodies well-kept
(and well wrapped up as a rule),
but he sometimes carries a stiff one around
when the young ones come home from school.
The people in our street simply say,
'We all have to carry our load,'
and so he is able to carry on,
the odd hitman across the road.

On the road to Damascus he faltered when a radiant beam from the skies
seized his mind in a moment that altered both his fortune and that of mankind.
He fell down on his knees, aching under the sharp pain of his senses' demise,
and he heard a hard voice which like thunder pierced his ears while the light left him blind,
'Saul of Tarsus, you're wasting your talent by assisting the High Priest and kin
who all laugh at the arrogant gallant who sneaked into their faith like a thief.
You weren't born one of them, and you never will advance from the rank that you're in,
and his daughter's rejection forever sours the taste of your new-found belief.

'You can surely remember the glory of the temple where Bacchus you praised
who was born of the fair virgin Kore to his father, almightiest Jove,
on the twenty-fifth of December as the Sun from the cross had been raised,
that his mysteries, try to remember, were your comforting treasure trove.
You'll recall how your god had turned water into wine with a nod of his head,
and how Bacchus fell victim to slaughter, died and went to the underworld
to console Orcus' captives, and rather three days later he rose from the dead
to ascend to the throne of his father where his triumph in splendour unfurled.

'How they spoke of the heavenly palace of the Saviour who'd given his life,
how you drank his red blood from the chalice to atone for the sins of your youth;
then you rendered your heart to a woman you desired to become your own wife
and discarded all things that were Roman, and you called it your quest for the truth.
With her father you hunt the beginners of the Way, the disciples who teach
that the death of one Christ redeems sinners and that Yahweh rewards earthly strife,
and who worship the buried pariah who did preach what the Pharisees preach,
just because he is called the Messiah and says women may conquer the life?

'Here's a sect that cries out for a leader! Here's a cult of its founder bereft!
Here's the moulding clay for the reader of the scriptures to fill in the gaps,
here's a chance to rewrite Jesus' mission and to close the large void he has left,
recreate him in sacred tradition of Lord Bacchus Almighty; perhaps
all the Christians will soon be rejoicing in your view when they hear the good news,
and the Romans and Jews may be voicing their delight at a covenant hurled
amongst those who are preaching disaster: one religion for Romans and Jews
with yourself as their High Priest and master – a faith to take over the world!'

In Joseph's small carpentry shop on Rogue Alley
his son dropped his hammer and opened his gob,
'I've had it to here! I'll be leaving this valley
today, and I'll look for a different job!'

'And what will you do?' asked his father with patience
and picked up the cross that his son angrily
had thrown to the floor. 'You've no qualifications -
there is a great future in carpentry!

'We do not take orders, we are our own bosses,
and yesterday morning our workload increased:
another large order for two hundred crosses
came in from the Romans; they must plan a feast!'

'I hate making incense cases from briar
and crosses from dogwood and tables from pine:
I want to go out and become a messiah
and fix this bad world and become the Divine!

'Do not try to stop me, I'll leave on the double!'
but Joseph stayed calm and said, 'Listen to me!
Messiahs are homeless and always in trouble,
and people despise them for what they can see.

'Messiahs do not get their salaries weekly,
not many disciples will follow their call;
I know you will fail, and I know you will meekly
return to your cross, son, in no time at all!'

Nearing the grave, the holy man decides
to make another pilgrimage, intending
to honour Him who blessed his life and who
gave him the sacred gift of understanding
the languages of every beast and man.
Taking his staff on which he is depending,
amongst the turbulence of the crusade
he struts through war-torn plains for many moons,
'With this last pilgrimage, Almighty God,
I thank thee for thy providence and boons!'

The starving locals willingly give alms
to help him on his journey, and the seeker
of God continues on his way, a song
upon his lips, but soon the road turns bleaker,
the sun burns hotter and the birds depart.
In the deserted wastelands he grows weaker
as hunger and fatigue at last set in,
but then he's spotting, just before he swoons,
date palms beside a stream, 'Almighty God,
I thank thee for thy providence and boons!'

And in a dale he finds the carcasses
of victims of the holy war, all scattered
across the glade, being devoured by wolves,
and one exclaims, 'Oh Lord, thou hast unfettered
thy creatures from their deadly enemies,
thou punishest them like they never mattered
and mak'st them turn against each other to
protect and feed us!' - In the afternoon's
dim light he kneels and howls, 'Almighty God,
I thank thee for thy providence and boons!'

(Based on Jean Meslier's Oriental Legend)

It's when the days are at their darkest
and when the nights are long and cold
that all the world's good little children
will be rewarded hundredfold.

They'll leave a boot beside the chimney,
filled up with carrots and with hay,
before they go to bed and dream of
the treats already on their way.

And in the night an old white-bearded
man will be riding on his mount
across the still deserted night sky
beneath the stars he scarce can count.

Wherever boots are on the rooftops
his eight-legged horse which knows the drill
will lick its lips and be descending
to greedily devour its fill.

The sage will stuff the boots with candy
and toys and mount his steed anew
whose shiny nose is red from drinking
the blood of those its master slew.

And once the presents are delivered,
Odin will swing his axe to seize
the men and gods who have opposed him
and butcher all his enemies.

At dawn a lot of happy children
will check their boots and have a ball.
Provided Odin didn't get you,
a happy Yuletide to you all!

I came not to send peace, but the sword.
Matthew 10:34

'Twas the nightmare of Christmas, when all through the West
the bonfires were lit for the feast, and the best
of the harvest and cattle that plentiful year
had produced were brought forth since a new one was near.
But their sun god had died, and the nights became long,
and he had to be wakened by fire and by song,
so he'd generate daylight and warmth for each field
which it needed another harvest to yield.
And after the people had eaten their share
they prayed to the sun god to make him aware,
and worshippers danced to the song of their priest
when Christians with torches approached from the East.
They beheaded the dancers and slaughtered the chiefs:
'We must put an end to your pagan beliefs,
barbarian customs and godless ways!'
With this they mowed through the crowd to praise
the Lord who had brought them eternal life
by massacring children, husband and wife.
And they heard them exclaim as they killed with delight,
'Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!'

The few who survived became Christians by force;
their descendants now follow tradition, of course,
and celebrate Christmas for all it is worth
when Jesus was born to bring peace to this Earth.

Life is a horror film for most
in which just anybody could
be killed for being in the way
or who they are for the common good.

The only ones who know they're safe
are the white Christians since they are
either the killers or the film's
audience watching from afar.

The timbal kept on beating
and stirred the strident brass,
the angels dropped like windfall
when Father Death said Mass.

The clerestory enabled
no ray of light to pass
the dingy little windows
when Father Death said Mass.

He roared we all were evil
and doomed to live in Hell
for being disobedient,
selfish and vain as well.

God is our Lord, he ranted,
His order will prevail:
He made us in His image
and hates to see us fail!

Outside the sun was shining,
and on the rampant grass
the daffodils were blooming
while Father Death said Mass.

'Mum, I can't sleep tonight because I fear
the old invisible man who's in my room
and watches everything I do, who'll hear
all things I whisper and who'll spell my doom,
who will come out to get me before long,
and who will burn me if I'm doing something wrong.'

'Oh darling, there's no need to be afraid
of God! I'm certain that he loves you still;
he'll only punish those who disobeyed,
but he'll reward all those who do his will.
You'll be in Paradise with him one day
if you do everything your priests and parents say.'

During their annual business dinner
God and the Devil checked the notes
of all their recent slaughters, telling
each other buoyant anecdotes
of their adventures. Reminiscing
on his past heydays, God recalled
how his disciples glorified him
with genocides in days of old,
with human sacrifices, witch hunts,
the Inquisition, holy wars,
and after he had finished ranting,
the two began comparing scores.
God and the Devil know the score:
whom will you help to butcher more?

God made the start, ‘Religious conflicts
killed thousands: children, women, men.
Seems the crusades are fading out now:
some thousand in Afghanistan,
but with the hatred and confusion
I spread in holy books I still
reach individuals who make it
their business to fulfil my will:
thousands of honour killings, stonings,
murders of atheists and gays
and the apostates who won’t follow
my laws in the determined ways.’
God and the Devil know the score:
whom will you help to butcher more?

‘Religious terror was successful
in wiping out thousands of lives
of those professing wrong religions
on which their detestation thrives.
Thousands are there who killed their children
obeying me, Almighty God:
some by denying medication
while others didn't spare the rod.
Due to my ban on condoms, hundreds
of thousands died of HIV,
and every mass and serial killer
has been brought up worshipping me.’
God and the Devil know the score:
whom will you help to butcher more?

The Devil said, ‘You’ve lost a lot of
disciples in our little game,
with people openly refusing
to kill each other in your name.
The less you're worshipped, praised and prayed to,
the less the bloodshed on this Earth,
and thanks to ignorance and progress
I'll soon catch up for all it's worth.
You boast that last year you've been sending
hundreds of thousands to their doom;
but I caused fifty million mothers
to kill the children in their womb!’
God and the Devil know the score:
whom will you help to butcher more?

So God called Rogziel, and he told him,
‘We need to think of one infaust
event to kill hundreds of millions,
something that makes my Holocaust
look like a children's party favour,
a tragedy that will secure
my lead, a grave unprecedented
calamity that can assure
mankind that I am still as wrathful
as in the days of old, back when…’
He hesitated for a moment -
‘I think,’ he said, ‘I have a plan…’
God and the Devil know the score:
whom will you help to butcher more?

Clara dressed up, excited
about her latest date –
what kind of doctor was he,
and would he show up late?

He was a man of culture,
gentle and well-behaved,
and Clara kept on wond'ring
how many lives he’d saved.

The restaurant was crowded,
but soon the waiter led
them to their seats. A woman
came up to him and said,

‘Thanks, doctor, for your kindness.
Now I'm in shape, and on
Sunday I will be running
the charity marathon!’

‘Who was that?’ Clara asked him
after she went away.
‘That lady is a patient,
I trashed her child today.’

Marie Stopes pioneered the concepts of
family planning, contraception and
of birth control in times when views like these
were quite unlikely to find many a friend.

Since she prevented pregnancies, some called
her antilife; she managed to disarm
them by insisting that, once life emerged,
this life must be protected from all harm.

In all her clinics nurses had to sign
a declaration they would not inform
about abortions nor assist in them,
because for some this might have been the norm.

Her friend Avro Manhattan pressured one
of his kept women to abort - the case
came to Marie's attention; disgustedly
Marie called him a murderer to his face.

Will Carpenter named his abortion shop
after Marie and soon found out that this
was not a good idea because Marie
sued him for libel and for damages.

Two decades after she had died, she still
was known by many, causing quite a stir
back when Marie Stopes International
named their abortion business after her.

They were successful from the very start,
and every time somebody raised a brow
about their unbefitting choice of name,
they said, ‘Who cares, she will not sue us now!’

When all one believes in seems lost, and one sees
not a ray of hope for great plans Fortune shuns,
Fate sometimes provides opportunities,
but these must be noticed and grasped at once.

Fort Pitt lay besieged by hundreds of proud
Indians reclaiming their land and their skies
while inside the walls of it smallpox broke out,
and soldiers and citizens died just like flies.

'A pox on those Indians,' barked Major Trent
as the corpses lay piled in the hospital's court,
'for keeping us trapped!' when the message was sent
that two Indian chiefs had arrived at the fort.

'Six nations are gathered and keen to attack,
but they all have agreed when we asked to delay
hostilities, giving you time to pack
and leave the fort and the country today.'

'I'm grateful for your concern,' Trent replied,
'but we've all that we need in the fort, and apart
from that, reinforcements will join our side,
so go and tell them that they can start.'

But since they meant well, wrote the misanthrope
in his journal, and out of respect (God forbid)
we gave them two hospital blankets. I hope
it will have the desired effect.

                             - It did.