Woe be to the ancient Chinamen
who gave birth to this noxious brew,
with certainty they could not foresee
the monster into which it grew.
They plucked the sword from able hands
of warriors brave and strong,
putting deadly force within the grasp
of the lowliest in the throng.
No more we march in resplendent ranks
with spear and shield and helm,
depending on heroic strength
to defeat and overwhelm.
The burst of shells and muzzle blasts
are triggered by gunman's choice,
but the keening wails of widows
is the other aspect of its voice.
Its roar eventually rivaling
the thunder of Thor and Mars,
the means of wholesale slaughter
has mistakenly become ours.
We couldn't save it for a show
merely lighting up the sky,
but turned it on our brothers
to efficiently make them die.
This recipe for human rage
brewed in the bowels of hell,
tempted us to greater violence
and we learned to use it well.
I grieve and cringe here on my knees
at the power the Gods let slip,
this talon of hateful spite and rage
they should reach down to clip.
by Robert Quinn
all rights reserved
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