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Another Time, Another Dream is Coming


There’s a black man in the white house
much to the white supremacist’s shame.
They don’t care that he’s a decent man,
all they do is curse his name,
blame the liberals and the democrats,
and all the other socialists that elected him.

Illusions, delusions, confusions, intrusions
run rampant through the foggy pathways
of their closed and bitter minds,
as they dream about another day that’s coming.

They cling to some faint hope
that someday they will be president,
but they should take a rope,
and hang like an apple in the wind,
because that’s the proper justice
for these kind of men and women.

Dreams and schemes of grandeur
dominate their waking hours,
and they go seeking power
from the proletariats that they’ve wounded,
with their bombs and guns a blazing.

The political pundits and professors
wrap themselves in pontificating pride,
for being on the side of knowing
for once in a long, long time,
which way the political wind was blowing.

The contortionists in the cemetery
have chosen unmarked graves,
and wonder where the circuses have gone.
The clowns in the center ring
shed a bitter tear as they seek applause,
from the saints that have come so far to see them.

All the lost souls hide on the backs of white birds,
and hope that heaven will receive them.
The lemming and the dodo are still your best friends,
and as you wander through your multi coloured dreams,
you stop and listen to the bearded poets
as they spout their vitriolic, bitter rhymes,
and you wonder why they do not sing of freedom.

As you wander through the fields of dying
you wonder if you will ever go back home
or will you end up as so many soldiers do
lying in the bed that was made for you,
by the visionaries that have chosen war.
Can you forgive their naked lies,
that have brought you from the summer fields,
and given you so much pain in return?

You listen to the singing birds on some back porch
somewhere in the vague shadows of your mind,
and you pray that they will again come some day
back from the lands where they are forever young.
You wish that they will bring seeds
of hope, of peace and of bright dreams,
so you can plant them on the rainy days of spring.

But you know in heart and mind
that the good are born to die young,
and take their dreams of optimism and change
when they crawl into their graves
with the contortionists that are waiting for them.

Will the clowns still cry for you
when you surrender to
the nightmares that you are now dreaming?
Or will the saints wipe away bitter tears,
and tell the clowns to stop crying.
As they fly away on doves of peace
will they ever find what they died for?

There’s a black man in the white house
much to the white supremacist’s shame.
They don’t care that he’s a decent man,
all they do is curse his name,
blame the liberals and the democrats,
and all the other socialists that elected him.

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