A Wry Memorial

The Swarthy Ones took over;

And made weapons of four planes.

The riders had no cover;

They suffered dreadful pains

That ended once their deathtraps

Burst into roaring fires

Turning instantly to mere scraps––

Cinders––made of former flyers.

The burning towers crumpled,

And fell into the street.

New York was more than rumpled;

Briefly, it knew defeat.

The nation drew together;

We felt collective grief.

Anger broke its tether;

To express it gave relief.

But only ten years hence

We're at each other's throats;

We've built ourselves a fence

Over which the Devil gloats.

We've failed to give the orders

To build a proper wall

Sealing off our borders

To the fiends who’d have us fall.

Instead, we've made division––

Went to war against ourselves––

And are mired in derision

Sparked by partisan elves,

Who forget this blessed land

In pursuit of powers lost

In close elections manned

By fraud. So, tempest-tossed

The country is in turmoil.

The enemy's our own.

He says it's all for Big Oil,

And he'll soon usurp the Throne.

The heap of twisted rubble

Raising toxic fumes for weeks

No longer gives us trouble

Because of media leaks

Designed to throw us off the scent

Of whom we need to blame

And encourage ruinous dissent

That hopes to break the frame

That holds us all together

And preserves our liberty,

So many now doubt whether

We really should be free.

And each rabble rousing louse

Should 'neath these words be pinned:

"He who troubleth his own house

Shall inherit–––the wind"