LYRICS OF A LOWBROW - Robert W. Service (The Poet of the Yukon)

Ah yes, I know my brow is low and often wished it high

So that I might with rapture write an epic of the sky.

A poem cast in contour vast, of fabled kings and feys;

A classic screed that few would read yet nearly all would praise.

Alas, low-browed, to lure the crowd, with cap and bell I sing;

And some may cheer and some may jeer and some a farthing fling.

The lofty line will ne'er be mine. to rude rhyme I belong,

And try to please the least of these who listen to my song.

Kind folk! excuse my moron muse whose earthiness I rue;

Of homespun class it is alas the best that I can do.

Of grosser grain I strive in vain to scale the Alps of art...

A clown I go: Hooplah! - but oh the hunger in my heart

With a deep bow to The Poet of The Yukon, I offer the following:



 MEMORIAL DAY - May 31, 2010



Four specters rose from morning’s mist

Each held a weapon in his fist.

Four soldiers, tattered khaki clad,

Four who’d given all they had.



This time each year they gathered round

The Unknowns’ Tomb, their hallowed ground,

This sacred squad from Kingdom Come,

To celebrate what they had done.




They’d marched forth from the womb of dawn,

From separate generations born.

Each brave and bold, once bound for war,

Now grave and cold for evermore.



The first, his taste of combat brief,

Had lain awash on D-Day beach.

He thought of home and she who’d grieve

Then closed his eyes and took his leave.



The second one, on Pork Chop hill,

Took three foes with him as he fell.

The trench his tomb, the sky his shroud,

His final prayer, “I hope dad’s proud.”



 The third, in Mekong, met his fate,

Flew home in flag-draped wooden crate.

His widow’s tears could not deflect

The peaceniks’ foul-mouthed disrespect.



The fourth had newly joined the squad,

(A roadside bomb in old Baghdad)

Before he died he prayed that he

Might kiss the son he’d never see.



But this was now a different time.

The land they died for in decline.

No more the greatest place on earth.

Their sacrifice had lost its worth



Their countrymen had gone astray,

Had tossed their heritage away.

Forgotten Pearl and Peleliu.

Forgotten 9/11 too.




Forgot Inchon and Heartbreak Ridge.

Forgot Da Nang and Quang Tri Bridge.

These four who fought and bled and died

Just turned their heads away and cried.



Each tried his hardest to disguise

(He couldn’t to his comrades show)

The tears that welled within his eyes;

From pain that only warriors know.



“Not pain from death - Death’s part of war,”

They’d tell you if you couldn’t guess.

“But pain that comes from hist’ry’s whore,

That strumpet called forgetfulness.”









(May 24, 2008)

The 60's crowd, they had a ball -
When drugs and sex and self were all.
"Make love not war. We're all for peace."
(Except when fighting the Police).
"Get me some weed. Turn on, drop out."
That's what they were all about.
No moral compass, just inhale.
"Strive not and you can never fail."

Religion? Not their cup of tea.
"The only god I need is me."
There is no right. There is no wrong.
There's only my next dollar bong."
Their tie-dyed minds can only curse.
The police are pigs. Our soldiers worse.
What value is there in this bunch?
A generation out to lunch.

With Viet Nam they ran amok,
Forced Uncle Sam to run and duck.
They forced our winning side to fly
And let 3 million people die.
They tried an encore in Iraq
But couldn't get their karma back.
So now, in desperation, they
Have one last chance to win the day.

They must rely on Hillary
To try to save Bill's legacy.
His legacy is also theirs,
They're his immoralistic heirs.
Now, aging flower children, they
Are desperate for a quick replay.
Thus, demonstrating with their friends,
They march around in their Depends.

With signs aloft they vent their spleen,
Their slogans old, their shouts obscene.
America's the devil's spawn
And, "Damn the day George Bush was born!"
Katrina's tears - the price of crude -
Rubble where Twin Towers stood -
"They're all his fault and, looking back,
He lied to us about Iraq."

Who are their heroes? Who their gods?
Who gets their bobble-headed nods?
Without a trace of self-reproach
They took Bill Clinton as their coach.
"If he can do it so can we."
Is their self-serving liturgy.
To all his sins they closed their eyes,
Held their noses, voted twice.

They worship at the same old shrine
(The same old prayer, the same old whine),
That Evita Rodham Clinton will
Their socialistic dreams fulfill.
Her health care fiasco she'd repeat
Then lead our forces in retreat.
(My advice, just don't get sick,
And learn to speak in Arabic.)

So, all of us, who love this land,
Who want America to stand
For honesty, for strength, for pride
Must throw these charlatans aside.
Lets do away, once and for all
With Clinton lies and Clinton gall.
And then, dear God, let us reclaim
Our country's soul, our sacred flame.



(April 12, 2008)

Twinkle, twinkle, little tart
At the White House, played her part.
Made the master moan and groan
While they played with each his own,
Just a weekend matinee.
But, ere Sunday morn gave way
She'd have to go 'cause he
Must go to church with Hillary.

With trousers up and zipper done
He went to fetch his Number One.
Clutching fast their holy books,
Upon their pusses pious looks
Our king and queen to God's house went
(A summit meeting their intent?)
Only now and then they'd stop
For each self-righteous photo-op.

The TV cameras caught each stride
The Lord and Lady sanctified.
He'd wave to subjects left and right
Exuding Messianic light.
While she, who made her devil's pact,
Made outward show, denied the fact
That she had chosen to forsake
Honor, truth for power's sake.

And lo, in Monday's New York Times,
The word rings forth like steeple chimes,
"Our leader's grand, our hopes endure:
He feels our pain, of that we're sure.
No matter what they say he's done
(What the hell, don't everyone?).
The market's up, what if he lied
Saint Hillary stays by his side".

Who but Slick Willie could convince
The feminists that he's their prince?
He's pro-abortion, so that means
That he's allowed to drop his jeans.
Who promised all, delivered none.
Convinced the Blacks that he's the one.
Became the first Black President
A living saint, a blest event.



And now that several years have flown
  Saint Hillary would claim her own.
  It’s now her due, her Faustian right,
To move back to the house that’s white.
(She certainly wants no repeat -
Eight years without the catbird seat.)
If she succeeds, it’s less than sure
That she’ll bring back the furniture.

In Arkansas they had their way
He taxed, he groped, she looked away.
The Little Rock to D.C. swing
Let them grab the golden ring.
The White House was their bag of tricks,
The Lincoln Bedroom - Motel Six,
The Oval Office private honey,
The Chinese laundering their money.

Bush 1 left them an upward trend,
They blew the Gipper’s dividend
They cut our military forces back
Then willed Bush 2 a downward track.
Claimed success and off they rode
To their Chappaqua abode.
Tossing pardons left and right
To terrorists and crooks in flight.

She’d like to go where Bubba went
And win two terms as President.
(He won two times, but well to note,
That he got less than half the vote.)
He also got impeached and more,
He lied. And recently she swore,
That as a Senator she’d stay
A full six years. Well, who’s to say?

Now that Clinton cash has mounted
(One hundred mill last time we counted),
More power is their only goal.
The Super Delegates must roll!
Damn the Party! Damn the day!
If they don’t win, there’s hell to pay.
Obama better watch his back
And Bill may even get the sack.

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