Their heads austerely decorated
With hideous headress
Their ears overflowingly filled
With the sounds of ocean waves
Beating against the cloister walls
Silent rosary-armed nuns
Listen to God on a foghorn
Saying unto them:
This world is not for you

Twisted predators
And deranged perpetrators
Heads full of cinematic visions
Orchestrated with incessant voices
And the train running right on time
Blaming their parents for what they are
Cursing God for what they've become
And those voices tell them:
None of this is your fault

Third World waifs
Malnutritioned and zombie-like
Sporting prominent bones and bloated bellies
Too dehydrated to even cry
Not realizing they are celebrities
Exploited in late night TV commercials
How can we save these children?
The answer seems very clear:
The price of a cup of coffee

Madame et Monsieur
Sailing the Carribean on a yacht
Luxuriously basking in their riches
Burying their dysfunction
Numbing the pain with booze
Their troubled tormented children
Burdens, embarassment and scandal
Bewildered they sigh:
But we gave them everything money could buy!

©2001 poetheart

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