This narrative poem is publicly shared. Extracted from, Tall Tales and Short Stories (c) by Leyland A. King. The book is available through Amazon.com, among other stores.
The One Eyed, Deaf Deity
‘Fore broke the dark day
A small town not far away,
Trucks a-rumble, barriers crumble,
Guns shout, attack! Attack!
Tromping warns of hurried boots,
Thumping hearts, they quake,
Terror! Terror! Fear the coming Boots!
“Get out! Fifteen minutes. Scram! Scoot”!
Horror! Holler, “Please, don’t shoot”!
“Vacate?! Where to? No”!
“Death or corral, which bitch?
Snarled! Sneered, Jack Boots,
The ugly, menacing brutes.
Those empty-eyed, baneful
Hushed, spoke of Destiny’s plans.
Sporadic booms bang closer still.
What to do, what to take?
“Please, sir….”, beg; pleadings shrill.
“Why, for God sake….”
“Ten Minutes”! Growled Boots.
So ready a life to take.
“All you can carry. No! That stays”,
Flapped big, burly Boots.
Rapine eyes seize what’s mine. “Why us”?
“Orders. Following orders”, deflected the Boots.
“But why us”?! We didn’t…, we are …, we aren’t…”
“Them, eh? Them?! Hurry, damn it”! Bapped a riled Boot.
Makes ready to shoot.
Time’s up! Line up! Join up!
Spirits flag. Shoulders sag.
Proceeds a funereal plod.
Men die. Babies cry.
Generations’ memories, heavy-sigh.
Hope fast-fled the blinded night.
Gloom here, doom there.
Differs not where.
What! No fight?! This isn’t right.
Mothers’ aching breasts protest.
Oh, they didn’t know of the Boots.
But, heard they not the horrid bruit?
Wailing? Curdling screams a-sudden mute?
Bashed skulls; the smiting butts?
Bones crunched; Wills scrunched?
Care not the ravage of rampaging Boots?
Not I. Deny! Won’t see, can’t hear. Why speak?
Happen’ before, now once more.
Done is done, but never was done.
Still, the will be certain done.
“Your turn”, they mocked, they swore.
And gloated even more.
Squishy, sticky, scarlet-red Boots.
Spectate. Tolerate. Obfuscate. Vindicate.
But someone sic the beastly Boots.
Him, they venerate. He is great! They celebrate.
Praise cupidity and murderous cahoots,
The deadly, baleful, barbarous brutes.
At hand, a-ready to persecute.
But today’s mud-hero, breeds tomorrow’s villain,
By and by, creaks the wheel again.
Hate? Revenge? Which wins the game?
All ends the ghastly same.
Fate’s brazen cup, squatted she rattles,
Cold, trick-dices she cast,
Comes Death, he seizes the loser,
Boney fingers pick; snip; strip. He justly rips.