B.Z. in B.T.
by Danny O'Rawe
For years our ears were devoid
Of the simple sense.
One voice pounding
With shock and awe
And mom’s apple pie,
A thousand fields away.
Local political voices
Stammering with regret
Hide deceit, wrapped in lies
Finished with red tape bow.
Street voices billowing out of early morning houses
Bigoted verses staggering backwards,
Armed voices imitating hope,
The TV voice.
And among the throng a song of simple sense.
Not the market song, not the slavery song.
