Storm In A Tea Cup
That Art’s Council tea-room in there.
It has got sandwiches for ten dollars!
And fancy cups of foreign coffee for five!
Dressing up cheap common food to put on airs!
Dats lots a Pakeha swilling din dere.
Da got ta play tat mana man sittin ere.
Ant no brows faces in dat sea-oh-white.
Maori no spill de money cept pay night.
Nor are my mates crowding among rich clowns.
We sup service where frugality wears a crown.
Money paid where sobriety is precisely value set.
Value guaranteed in balance procured service let.
Dat bad man. Dat bad man. Dat bad man.
E took dat. E took dat. E took dat.
For de fire water. For de musket. For de glass bead.
For de blanket. Eee sold it. Eee sold it. Eee sold it.
So what were the injustices of the real Land Wars?
Scots cast off land their ancestors bleed crops grew.
Houses flattened homeless refugees no pity given knew?
English Lords were never fair or kind? Too dispossessed you?
Cast out like sheep. Fatherless families. London’s gutters flock.
So new pastures new lords. Filled with sheep in swarming stock.
Scots men. British armies greedily recruited. Grabbed their lot.
Irish up front in genocide queue. A potato failure famine!
Not a lack of food! English ate all else as rated rent!
Eight million Irish and only one million starvation spent?
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Land Grievances
Get in line. Young Maori. Get in line.
Death Death March legally signed
before young Maori intensely pined.
Killed was ancient ancestral spirit
cleaving Celtic Isle mist lost lands.
Butchered guttered tie affixed lost
birthright mystic Celtic legendary lands.
Blood washed uprooted cast out are clans
purged from beloved Celtic ancestral lands.
Umbilical cord was cut brutally severed
with stealing steal tongue beastly fire.
For more sheep landlord pasture profit
Scottish smashed in are cottages homes.
Flocks free bleating beasts tended roam
rule ruined outcast vacated ghost villages.
Starvation claims sickening women children
destitute dying in London’s stinking slums.
Scottish men die dye red ranging regiments
across stolen globe with British firing guns.
Scottish bag-pipes screaming brave Scotsmen heard
wounds silhouette bleeding sunset blood-red suns.
In Ireland peasants dye starvation stained
with green mouths on bitter famine food.
Eating grass inland coastal eating seaweed
bounty stock free for rash starved Irish peasants.
British blight plague infests deflowered land
bloated corpses manure pastures Irish rued.
Providential not pestilent genocide inflicting Ireland;
English lords taxing life breath to death never sued.
Sweeping rubble rabble forth dark memories purge
upon ship passage exiles permanently migration move.
Homeland is lost family plot burial land
countless wakes memories survivors ban.
Get in line. Young Maori. Get in line.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Luck Of The Irish
Ok, one, two, three, one two, three
If you had the luck of the irish,
You'd be sorry and wish you were dead.
You should have the luck of the irish,
And you'd wish you was english instead.
A thousand years of torture and hunger,
Drove the people away from their land.
A land full of beauty and wonder
Was raped by the british brigands!
Goddamned!
Goddamned!
If you could keep voices like flowers,
There's be shamrock all over the world.
If you could drink dreams like irish streams,
Then the world would be as high as the mountain of morn.
In the 'pool they told us the story
How the english divided the land.
Of the pain and the death and the glory
And the poets of auld eireland.
If we could make chains with the morning dew,
The world would be like galway bay.
Let's walk over rainbows like leprechauns,
The world would be one big blarney stone.
Why the hell are the english there anyway?
As they kill with god on their side!
Blame it all on the kids and the i.r.a.
As the bastards commit genocide!
Aye! aye!
Genocide!
Okay!
You should have the luck of the irish,
You'd be sorry and wish you were dead.
You should have the luck of the irish,
And you'd wish you was english instead.
One more time!
You should have the luck of the irish,
You'd be sorry and wish you were dead.
You should have the luck of the irish,
And you'd wish you was english instead,
Hey, yes, you'd wish you were english instead.
- "thank you!
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Take The Rope From My Throat That I May Sing My Song Children Of Mokomoko
I’m a Pakeha! I’m a Pakeha! I’m a Pakeha!
To you!
To me.
I’m a kiwi.
Jump up and down! Jump up and down! Jump up and down!
Knock heads off stone statues!
Spray paint emblems of Britannic Queen.
Banter! Banter! Banter! Racist Slogans!
Frog march in gardens!
Decapitate under trees.
Shit on land you claim as yours!
I can tell you really respect it!
Best land management policy!
Pakeha and extinct Moa!
Make all nation’s children everyone
learn Maori at school.
Learn!
Anything?
You never did.
Show some real Maori mana!
Traditional Full-Face Tattoo!
Wear it with leather-jacket boots tribal patch.
Go on. Kick my head in!
I know you want to!
Idyllic days.
Before Pakeha
came and spoilt everything.
Maori all mates together.
Left.
And then?
There’s no white one.
For you to eat.
Left each other.
Just the way it used to be.
Cook’em in a hungi in the ground with hot smouldering stones.
Perfect. Yum Yum. Pork. Pakeha (meaning white pig) .
Those Nineteenth Century Pakeha.
They were too tough.
And these twentieth century ones.
Too fat and lazy.
They don’t do anything.
They can’t
have
no Maori rights.
See.
We are.
One people.
New Zealanders. (Not by Law Couzie Bro. You got de extra rights!)
On your racist census forms.
Where it says
Pakeha (meaning white pig) / European.
I know.
It doesn’t. Represent!
Mean me!
I’m
Not Pakeha.
I’m
Not European.
I write other!
Born here! Birthright?
But them very bad white land appropriators don’t belong here!
Any more. (Ignore Pakeha blood in your own veins!)
This land is ours. Is ours. Is ours.
Non-Maori second-class leeches on our land.
Without freedom. (Exorcism Pakeha blood out of Maori veins!)
Of speech. (Make peace with yourself. Own warring internal blood lines!)
Word Pakeha gives me a belly-ache.
I haven’t got a belly-full
of beer on doll-dollars!
My belly.
Is full.
Of Coffee.
Pounding Ulcer Points.
Stick it down your own throat.
I want to sing my song.
Copyright © Terence George Craddock
This poem references specifically one of many 1990’s Maori Land Protests.
Quote from Urban Dictionary. “Generally translated as referring to a white or pale appearance, pakeha has been variously described as meaning white pig, white maggot, or even white ghost, which may be in reference to the pakepakeha, a pale-skinned forest-dwelling people of pre-European Maori mythology.”
Quote from Uncyclopedia, the content-free encyclopedia. “Pakeha, pronounced 'Land-stealing-honky-bastards', is a common New Zealand Maori food. It is an introduced species, that arrived on sailing ships, around 1770, and began taking over the land. It has been deemed a pest, and while sometimes lovable and cuddly, some of the species are arrogant and aggressive. Pakeha is a food best served with Puha, a form a thistle, and kumara, a sweet potato.”
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Luck Of The Irish
If you had the luck of the irish
Youd be sorry and wish you were dead
You should have the luck of the irish
And youd wish you was english instead!
A thousand years of torture and hunger
Drove the people away from their land
A land full of beauty and wonder
Was raped by the british brigands! goddamn! goddamn!
If you could keep voices like flowers
Thered be shamrock all over the world
If you could drink dreams like irish streams
Then the world would be high as the mountain of morn
In the pool they told us the story
How the english divided the land
Of the pain, the death and the glory
And the poets of auld eireland
If we could make chains with the morning dew
The world would be like galway bay
Lets walk over rainbows like leprechauns
The world would be one big blarney stone
Why the hell are the english there anyway?
As they kill with God on their side
Blame it all on the kids the ira
As the bastards commit genocide! aye! aye! genocide!
If you had the luck of the irish
Youd be sorry and wish you was dead
You should have the luck of the irish
And youd wish you was english instead!
Yes youd wish you was english instead!
song performed by by Lennon John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Inefficient World Food Production Distribution
food waste
one country
say old Italy
800 million tonnes
of fruit picked sold
from fruit trees
750 million tonnes
left to rot
never picked
every year
market price
market fixed
market profit
not worth picking
costs more picking
than sold price paid
what a waste?
millions die wanting
millions die starving
millions die hurting
in an inefficient world?
now it is raining
luxury fruits
cherries peaches
blemish on trees
never sold
never eaten
never saves lives
harvest
process
serves
still in old Italy
20 million tones
spoils to market
more money paid
waste paid collected
paid in dump charges
can we not do better?
Italy is but one country
waste in global community
sickens sweet bull commodity
in an electronic age
can we not do better
reduce waste food
shortage shame deficiencies?
China India hungry markets
2.5 billion people droughts floods
increasing phenomena purchases
on global markets now
are undermining food
global world prices now
world’s poorest farmers
are key to deficit farmers’ food
production improvement
efficiency management is key
rising food demand increases
on a waste finite land planet
time for think
tank
needed solutions?
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In A Foreign Land
It was a matter of fact that when I paid all my tax
I held my world in the palm of my hand
And all of my debts were causing me to defect
To a land of bananas and sand
So I ran, yes I ran, yes I ran to a foreign land
Here I am, here I am
Here I am in a foreign land
Im so glad we made it
I thought wed never land
I grabbed all my cash
And decided to dash far away
Far away, far away to a foreign land
Here I am, here I am, here I am in a foreign land
Goodbye to all of the rich mans daughters
Goodbye to my debts now Im way cross the water
Far away, far away in a foreign land
Here I am, here I am here I am in a foreign land
La la la la la la
La la la la la la
Please tell my mother and all my ex-lovers
That Ive finally made the grade
Please tell my debtors and the money collectors
That all of my bills will be paid some day
Im away, Im away, far away in a foreign land
Goodbye champagne and caviar set
I wanna slum and drink all the rum I can get
Im away, Im away in a foreign land
Here I am, here I am, here I am in a foreign land
But Im all out of my jack and I cant go back
Im away, far away, far away in a foreign land
La la la la la la
La la la la la la
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Never Been Sold Before
You ask me, babe, "Can you work tonight?"
I've been up, babe, since broad daylight
I just can't believe that you're selling me,
You never sold me before
I just can't become your lousy who-o-ore
Yeah, I'm stacked nice, they really like my style
Fifty bucks, babe, ha, can't even buy my smile
I just can't believe that you're selling me,
You never sold me before
I just can't become your lousy who-o-ore
I-I-I-I find I come around just to lay this money on you, babe
I'm sick of streets, chicks and dicks, and I'm,
I'm really sick of you
Oh-oh, I've never been sold before
And I'll never be had again
Oh-oh, I've never been sold before
And I'll never be had a-gain
I just can't believe that you're selling me,
You never sold me befo-ore
I just can't become your little whore
No, no, no, no
Oh, I've never been sold before
And I'll never be had again
Oh-oh, I've never been sold before
And I'll never be had a-gain
Oh, I've never been sold before
And I'll never be had again
Oh-oh, I've never been sold before
And I'll never be had a-gain
Oh, I've never been sold before
And I'll never be had again
Oh-oh, I've never been sold before
And I'll never be had a-gain
Oh, I've never been sold before
And I'll never be had again
Oh-oh, I've never been sold before
And I'll never be had a-gain
Oh, I've never been sold before
And I'll never be had again
Oh-oh, I've never been sold before
And I'll never be had a-gain
song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sold Me Out
I always knew that theyd get me somehow sooner or later,
But with a bullet in the head, a knife in the back,
Not a pocket calculator.
Sorry mister, youre all wiped up,
Youre all washed up,
Sold you out.
Got no dreams, got no ambition,
Cant decide, cause theres no decision,
Got no claim to any position,
Cant compete with the competition.
Youre always complaining,
Its so depressing,
But if youre old enough,
Start to confess it.
You say, you sold me out,
To get a better deal for yourself,
You sold me out,
And now we want some of your precious wealth,
Because you sold me out.
Sold me out,
Sold me out,
Sold me out.
You sold me out,
To get a better deal for yourself.
You sold me out,
And now its every man for himself.
Work all your life, put the money in the bank,
Sign on the dotted line.
Try to draw it out, the jokes on you,
Put up the empty sign.
Sorry mister, were all sold out.
Sold me out,
Sold me out,
Sold me out,
Sold me out.
You, Im talkin to you.
You sold me out,
To get a better deal for yourself.
You sold me out,
And now we want some of your precious wealth.
And sell you out,
Like you sold me out.
Are you in so deep, that you cant get out?
Got no dreams, got no ambition,
Cant decide, cause theres no decision,
Got no claim to any position,
Cant compete with the competition.
Sold me out,
Sold me out,
Sold me out,
Sold me out.
(repeat)
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bondage
Bondage,
Mistreated,
Afflicted;
But in a land flowing with milk and honey,
Fo he Mafia sold her for money.
Of sheep,
Of oxen,
Of donkeys;
And they took all their wealth! !
But the edge of the sword was like the flints of war!
Bill, till, ill, kill, will, pill, dill, gill, fill, hill, mill, quill, rill! !
Mistreated under a severe bondage;
And the Mafia sold her for money.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Irish-English
Having stolen all the goods and gone,
The English are back in Ireland
Seeking the good of man
In folksong of the past.
Irish in acadamia
Have left the country behind
Preferring to live where the air comes in,
Leave the stench to the English mind.
It's neither one thing nor another
But a blend that works the best.
But when it comes to English-Irish
The latter think the opposite's blessed.
Living by the nostrils the Irish whiff the past,
'The English they can have it. By the future we are cast.'
poem by Douglas Scotney
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The Last of the Light Brigade
There were thirty million English who talked of England's might,
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.
They felt that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long,
That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four!
They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey;
Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old Troop-Sergeant muttered, "Let us go to the man who writes
The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites."
They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten-file strong,
To look for the Master-singer who had crowned them all in his song;
And, waiting his servant's order, by the garden gate they stayed,
A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.
They strove to stand to attention, to straighten the toil-bowed back;
They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose-knit files fell slack;
With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,
They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.
The old Troop-Sergeant was spokesman, and "Beggin' your pardon," he said,
"You wrote o' the Light Brigade, sir. Here's all that isn't dead.
An' it's all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the mouth of hell;
For we're all of us nigh to the workhouse, an, we thought we'd call an' tell.
"No, thank you, we don't want food, sir; but couldn't you take an' write
A sort of 'to be continued' and 'see next page' o' the fight?
We think that someone has blundered, an' couldn't you tell 'em how?
You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now."
The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.
And the heart of the Master-singer grew hot with "the scorn of scorn."
And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,
Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame.
O thirty million English that babble of England's might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night;
Our children's children are lisping to "honour the charge they made-"
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Envy
The Envy
They do not pay me well, in this café, where
I work, so I take a little food home and drink
a little wine, when I can, because all the chefs
I read about make much more money than me.
When a big shot, in the world of finance, gets
paid a million in bonus, he takes it but grumble
for in his circle, he knows no one who are paid
less then this, but many who are paid more
When I get my pension after cooking food for
fifty years, it will not be much and I know of
no one who get less than me, but plenty who
receive much more and that makes me bitter.
But it’s sweet to know that those who make
more money than me are rancorous too ‘cause
they know of many very rich people who have
much more money than they have.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Irish Potato Blight
Dying with green mouths
starving eating green grass.
Famine scavenge food coastal equalled
subsistence cursed evermore sea food.
Starvation was annihilation
of many Irish who never fled.
English took livestock for taxes unpaid
left starving tenant farmers for dead.
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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For All of These, and More
for every daughter aborted
in China because sons
are preferred...
for every young girl or boy
sold into slavery here
in the states...
for every whale killed
by the Japanese ships...
for every expanse of ocean
filled with our oil...
for every tree cut
by the saws of greed...
for every woman and child
working in sweatshops...
for every political prisoner
that we ignore...
for every homeless person
in the 'land of the free'...
for every kid in jail
who never had a chance...
for every old person
left alone to die...
for every family in Africa
left to starvation....
for every plate of food
thrown out, wasted mindlessly.
for every mountain raped
by the miner's hands...
for every kid that is different,
that is abused and beaten...
for everyone killed in our
money driven wars...
for all of these, and more...
i ask forgiveness, as
a member of the human family.
for all of these, and more,
i take responsibility.
for all of these, and more,
i choose to live today...
with an involved hope
for tomorrow!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Interacting Awareness
Every so often
is felt inner desire
an urge
to migrate
to city centre
focus of interaction
to touch pulse
feel heartbeat
immerse in movement
before returning
to shadow life
in solitary suburb.
On the periphery
guarding the heartseed
of dissipated land.
Lost in economics.
Best fertile productive land
worth doubles more if
for housing quick profit sold.
Best agricultural land lost
rich crops lost for ever more.
Rich rich soil so rare so rare
is true wealth of nation
build houses on worthless land.
People eat blessing of God given land
feeding people is blessing of mighty God.
To lay waste in greed to God given land
is to invite blight famine of greedy hand.
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dictatorships Exclusive
dictatorships
pyramid exclusive privilege
restricted rights
restricted benefits
streamlined American debt
states are bankrupt?
good common citizens
ordinary noble Americans
pay debt in sold skins
George W Bush
robbed American poor
who had to pay taxes
exempted wealth all
his buddy mega rich mates
who as his supporters
fund contributors
were apex tax exempt
paid no tax at all?
for a haven period
of several years
Barak reinstated
mega rich prime privilege
Barak Hussein Obama stepped
up illegal foreign wars
lied publicly because never closed
Guantanamo Bay as promised
bought troops home as promised
costly invasion inflation wars
crank up American blood debt
costly drone buzz missiles hit
over a million American
homes lost homes homes
the poor the middle class
suffer while wall street fraud
top bankers who were guilty
of mismanagement were bailed
out with tax payer dollars
again the fleeced poor paid
for errors of banker policy
rich and when poor protest
will they be swiftly beaten
down if dare march protest?
Say No To Torture?
Say No To Gitmo?
Say No To Barack?
Say No To Foreign Wars?
Say yes to bring home troops?
Say yes to American factories?
Say yes to fair taxes our homes?
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Song of the Squatter
The Commissioner bet me a pony—I won,
So he cut off exactly two-thirds of my run;
For he said I was making a fortune too fast,
And profit gained slower the longer would last.
He remarked, as devouring my mutton he sat,
That I suffered my sheep to grow sadly too fat;
That they wasted waste land, did prerogative brown,
And rebelliously nibbled the droits of the Crown;
That the creek that divided my station in two
Showed that Nature designed that two fees should be due.
Mr. Riddle assured me’t was paid but for show,
But he kept it and spent it, that ’s all that I know.
The commissioner fined me because I forgot
To return an old ewe that was ill of the rot,
And a poor wry-necked lamb that we kept for a pet;
And he said it was treason such things to forget.
The commissioner pounded my cattle because
They had mumbled the scrub with their famishing jaws
On the part of the run he had taken away,
And he sold them by auction the costs to defray.
The border police they were out all the day
To look for some thieves who had ransacked my dray;
But the thieves they continued in quiet and peace,
For they ’d robbed it themselves, had the border police!
When the white thieves had left me the black thieves appeared,
My shepherds they waddied, my cattle they speared;
But from fear of my license I said not a word,
For I knew it was gone if the Government heard.
The commissioner’s bosom with anger was filled
Against me because my poor shepherd was killed;
So he straight took away the last third of my run,
And got it transferred to the name of his son.
The son had from Cambridge been lately expelled,
And his license for preaching most justly withheld!
But this is no cause, the commissioner says,
Why he should not be fit for my license to graze.
The cattle, that had not been sold at the pound,
He took with the run at five shillings all round,
And the sheep the blacks left me at sixpence a head,—
A very good price, the commissioner said.
The Governor told me I justly was served,
That commissioners never from duty had swerved;
But that if I’d a fancy for any more land
For one pound an acre he ’d plenty on hand.
I ’m not very proud! I can dig in a bog,
Feed pigs, or for firewood can split up a log,
Clean shoes, riddle cinders, or help to boil down—
Anything that you please, but graze lands of the Crown!
poem by Robert Lowe Sherbrooke
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Song Of The Squatter
The Commissioner bet me a pony—I won;
So he cut off exactly two-thirds of my run;
For he said I was making a fortune too fast,
And profit gained slower the longer would last.
He remarked as devouring my mutton he sat,
That I suffered my sheep to grow sadly too fat;
That they wasted waste land, did prerogative brown,
And rebelliously nibbled the droits of the Crown;
That the creek that divided my station in two
Showed that Nature designed that two fees should be due.
Mr. Riddle assured me 'twas paid but for show;
But he kept it and spent it; that's all that I know.
The Commissioner fined me because I forgot
To return an old ewe that was ill of the rot,
And a poor wry-necked lamb that we kept for a pet;
And he said it was treason such things to forget.
The Commissioner pounded my cattle because
They had mumbled the scrub with their famishing jaws
On the part of the run he had taken away;
And he sold them by auction the costs to defray.
The Border Police they were out all the day
To look for some thieves who had ransacked my dray;
But the thieves they continued in quiet and peace,
For they'd robbed it themselves—had the Border Police!
When the white thieves had left me the black thieves appeared,
My shepherds they waddied, my cattle they speared;
But for fear of my licence I said not a word,
For I knew it was gone if the Government heard.
The Commissioner's bosom with anger was filled
Against me because my poor shepherd was killed;
So he straight took away the last third of my run,
And got it transferred to the name of his son.
The son had from Cambridge been lately expelled,
And his licence for preaching most justly withheld!
But this is no cause, the Commissioner says,
Why he should not be fit for a licence to graze.
The cattle that had not been sold at the pound
He took with the run at five shillings all round;
And the sheep the blacks left me at sixpence a head
"A very good price," the Commissioner said.
The Governor told me I justly was served,
That Commissioners never from duty had swerved;
But that if I'd a fancy for any more land
For one pound an acre he'd plenty on hand.
I'm not very proud! I can dig in a bog,
Feed pigs or for firewood can split up a log,
Clean shoes, riddle cinders, or help to boil down
Or whatever you please, but graze lands of the Crown.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Crown Of Thorns
Fire of the sun
Flowers crumble into dust
The seed shall scatter and die
Light in her eyes
Pours black on their lives
We gather round a funeral pyre
And here we stand
In old englands land
Shattered glass on the ground
There are no words
To console this earth
To restore old englands pride
Never in a million or so years
Did we suffer so much bloodshed
Here comes the man
With the warm and gentle hands
Her name burned into his brow
Scorn in her eyes
Her back to the cries
We spit upon the life
That never was
And here we stand
In old englands land
The rose is choked by its thorn
She will cast salt for your wound
Old england wears no crown
Never in a million or so years
Did we suffer so much bloodshed
We didnt want to hurt you
But its not over yet
No never in a million or so years
Did we suffer so much bloodshed
song performed by by Erasure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Spoilers
Ye are the Great White People, masters and lords of the earth,
Spreading your stern dominion over the world's wide girth.
Here, where my fathers hunted since Time's primordial morn,
To our land's sweet, fecund places, you came with your kine and corn.
Mouthing your creed of Culture to cover a baser creed,
Your talk was of White Man's magic, but your secret god was Greed.
And now that your generations to the second, the third have run,
White Man, what of my country? Answer, what have you done?
Now the God of my Simple People was a simple, kindly God,
Meting his treasure wisely that sprang from this generous sod,
With never a beast too many and never a beast too few,
Thro' the lean years and the fruitful, he held the balance true.
Then the White Lords came in their glory; and their cry was: 'More! Yet more!'
And to make them rich for a season they filched Earth's age-old store,
And they hunted my Simple People - hunters of yester-year -
And they drove us into the desert - while they wrought fresh deserts here.
They ravaged the verdant uplands and spoiled wealth ages old,
Laid waste with their pumps and sluices for a gunny-bag of gold;
They raided the primal forests and the kind, rain-bringing trees
That poured wealth over the lowlands thro' countless centuries;
They fed their kine on the grasslands, crowding them over the land,
Till blade and root in the lean years gave place to hungry sand.
Then, warned too late of their folly, the White Lords grew afraid,
And they cried to their great god Science; but Science could not aid.
This have you done to our country, lords of the air and the seas,
This to the hoarded riches of countless centuries -
Life-yielding loam, uncovered, unsheltered in the drought,
In the floods your hand unbridled, to the age-old sea drifts out.
You have sold man's one true birthright for a White Man's holiday,
And the smothering sands drift over where once green fields turn grey -
Filched by the White Man's folly to pamper the White Lords' vice;
And leave to your sons a desert where you found a paradise.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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