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a poem by Stefan Lewis-Fish
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  Chairman Fish's Big Red Book
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So, there I am, A fish out of water, Gazing lustfully at pleasures, Primed for others to taste. A mouse amongst men, A second class squeaker, Still tilting at windmills, Seeking possible dreams. I'm not here on my own, There are others, just like me, Non participants, Biting their tongues. You, so called commanders, With all of your blessings, Assume that our silence, Means we don't object. You think we're all grateful, Scraping crumbs off tables, All touching our forelocks, That we're happy with our lot. I tell you, we're seething, Simmering, whilst, smiling, One day, we'll be ready, To take what we want. Then, you'll see something, A positive bloodbath, Our talents'll dazzle, You won't be prepared. Your simpering complacence, Will get its comeuppance, The meek are preparing, To inherit the Earth. You'll get no warning, You won't be forgotten, Whatever you've done, It's all in the book. All of your thoughts, All of your actions, Your life's opening up, For us judges to see. You can't get away, And we'll enjoy it, Whatever you've done, Your name's on the list... Trumpets will sound, And we'll all be equals, Meeting our maker, I'm
ready... Are you? |
