100 years 11/11/11

100 years 11/11/11

The snarling of our genes prescribe it,

  even as our minds proscribe it;

the self-immolation goes on and on.

Be quiet!

  the bloody war poets 
  are mad hammering on the door again.

A minute of silence please!

lock them out,  lock them out,

they are drowning out the playing,

as our military bands go marching off

to prevent another war.

We hope to plug the volcano

upon which migrant words astir,

but the dry staring eyes

of the aching the dead

do not deny it;

although they scream to prevent it,
a hundred years of turned deaf ears
ensure that it is true.

They march heads held high,
asserting, it is death that will die!
Yes, and pigs will fly,

I respectfully do aver.