SOMETIMES, RIGHT
The flowers are arched on Jackabond
Hill, where the graves remain sequestered.
Great notions come and go, but this Death
remains forever. Or, how we sound it,
anyway. Put the pen down, just walk off.
-
That road we took, to Kenilworth, it
somehow led us to here instead. A
bunch of old monuments where old
people are dead. I can't get any of that
out of my mind ; those parched lips, and
the guy with the blood in his shoes.
-
How any of this happens, I'll never know.
But it used to be quiet - those old-soldier
homes; they'd waddle and shuffle along, sad.
Now it's all treatment for this and for that,
a gold-mind industry of psychologic-repair,
stuff that never ends. Government fees, a
real dollar faucet. The tragedy is, now,
these veterans don't know the difference.
-
(And can't tell between then when
they're being taken for a ride).
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