New World Order

The Rulers wield their silver shields,

             wear golden coronets

while warders guard the prison yard,

             boast brazen bayonets

and unicorns flaunt ivory horns

             defending martinets.



While Bankers beam Their self-esteem

             (bailed out of broker's debts),

and Bureaucrats grow rich and fat

             in six-star luncheonettes, 

the deep, devout and down and out

             survive as silhouettes.



The Press take pains to wash our brains,

             Their words have mesmerized.

So, mild and meek, we fear to speak

             in worlds They’ve polarized,

and rush to war, through Satan's door,

             watch cities vaporized.



The Lord of Lore tells tales of war,

             of victories far away,

where eyes stare stark within the dark 

             and death is painted gray

on faces cold, some young, some old,

             in spectral disarray.



We're taught at school the Golden Rule

             for all to live in bliss,

but in the wars on foreign shores

             the only rule is this:

“Yo! You and I must fight and die

             inside the black abyss!”



But well alive, the Merchants thrive

            on sales of armaments

that Barons built (with pride, not guilt)

            to quell the dissidents,

while Partisans are posing plans

             to conquer continents.



And back at home, the rumors roam

             “Good times are soon to come,

despite the breeze on frozen seas

             in weathers wet and numb.”

When we’re in need, They’ll intercede

             with prayers if we succumb.



A Tabloid screams of phantom dreams

             to keep our minds at sea 

and TV skews the evening news,

             ensures we all agree:

“With dynamite we fight for right

             and not for tyranny.”



The brain aborts when drugged with sports

               and fashions of the day,

and sevenfold, men think as told

              and so are led astray;

and like some sheep (unless asleep)

             they baa when they obey.  



In search of sense in sounds intense

             of droning drum tattoos

(the beat sustains the endless reigns 

             which swamp the avenues)

souls, thin and worn, traipse by, forlorn,

             delayed by shackled shoes.



Ten thousand eyes belong to Spies

            who watch us day and night

to track our trails and read our mails

             and say They have the right

to know our thoughts and thwart our plots

             to cease Their oversight.



Behind the scenes, behind the screens,

             the rules are fixed, arranged

(contorted smiles conceal Their wiles -

             Their goals have never changed).

When upside-down, a grin is frown

             and common sense deranged.



Along the roads, the future bodes

             in legends made of dust,

and ashes gray the alleyway

             'neath lampposts scaled with rust.

While Divas dine with cakes and wine

             pale orphans share a crust.



Dead colonies of humble bees,

             a ravaged hornets' hive,

rain forests, dales and minke whales

             soon nothing left alive…        

a world laid waste is to Their taste,

             as long as They survive. 



As sunlight wanes in winter rains 

             and sullen shadows crawl,

the evening ebbs, and spider's webs

             seem tattooed on the wall.

Upon the night the Masters write

             The Final Protocol.