Rat-a-tat-tat
Rat-a-tat-tat – Rat-a-tat-rat-tat!
The uzi fills the wall with pock holes
Poc-poc-poc-poc
Little children too small and low to be hit
They duck and tremble, mute with fear
The old lady’s face freezes on an expression of terror,
Helpless…
Rat-a-tat-tat-a-tat, poc-poc-poc
The little children scramble on frightened legs,
Deaf to their own screams
To find mommy
And
Where is daddy?
There is no more daddy…
Over in the news room, the jaded editor
Skims the news reports, shakes his head,
Only thirteen dead, only three kids,
One father; not worthy, give it the door.
Let’s run the story of the nun in bed
And the one of the science class kids
With their baking soda and soda pop
in cooking pots with exploding lids.
Rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat, poc-poc-poc-poc
Good side, bad side
All sides are bad
Says the praying figure in the rubble that was home
Rat-a-tat poc-poc
All is lost for all
No end…
Rat-a-tat-tat, Poc-poc-poc-poc
And the old lady at the scene, she moans
And asks her daughter why such noise and who are you?
And where am I? And who are you?
Her eyes are weak and while she sees
She no longer comprehends;
She thinks the popping sounds are popping corn.
We’ve seen this picture a thousand times before
“The people should be spared from seeing all the gore
The people they deserve the chance to be rich…
And that was the editor’s considered pitch.”
Rat-a-tat-tat echoes across the waves
Silent moans float from captured slaves
Dance music wafts across a town
As debutantes come out in silken gowns.
Rat-a-tat-a-tat. Indeed! Harrumph.
I’m sick of seeing it I’ll see it more
The people don’t have to look
It’s my job to protect them from
All that; that way’s better, in my book.
The mayor clanks in wearing mayor’s chains,
Welcomes their princess for a tour of their town,
Thinking all the while how their coffer gains.
The pirate at the ball adjusts his one eye patch,
Sets his sight on a socialite, a dance to snatch;
And all is well where the GDP and comfort match.
Rat-a-tat-a-tat – poc-poc-poc-poc
The reporter on the scene kneels down and weeps;
He doesn’t know how his editor sweeps
His story off his editorial desk—
Even as a rubble child passes in his arms.
He is no longer just a reporter on the scene;
Now he is one of them.
Hundreds of charred and ash-covered bodies
Lay strewn amidst the loss,
Victims of war caused by hatred and greed.
In the silence between the volleys,
Words arise from a riot of the distant past,
“Why can’t we all just get along?”
And the old woman lay now on a caravan bunk
And the Doctor comes and as the Doctor says,
“Stage Seven now, it’s a matter of time,
And if she wants it, let her eat junk.”
Fresh from the field he’d removed some lead
From the head of a child who’d stepped on a mine.
Rat-a-tat-a-tat-tat-tat, the war goes on.
The pirate with the eye patch, he dances c’est bon!
The editor writes editorial mush.
The debutantes drink orange crush.
The reporter in the field, no longer can he tell.
The old woman dies, “bats in the belfry,” they say, rang her bell.
And the children of the rubble? They play football all day long,
With the kids of the science pots – and they all get along
Rat-a-tat-a-tat. Poc-poc-poc-poc.
The war goes on…
..and they call it victory!
Rat-a-tat-a-tat…
And thousands of Alzheimer’s ‘victims’ see such scenarios in varying degrees, in their heads – every day.
Please support the fight against Alzheimer’s disease.
And the victims of wars.
CREDITS: Boys in ruins – https://www.pinterest.com/pin/509399407821746883/
Saved, by someone, from aljazeera.smartgalleries.net
Debutante: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/319192692311898264/
Despondent man: http://pixel-slinger.deviantart.com/art/Daily-Sketch-Shell-Shock-369371961
Graveyard, peace at last: Clip Art, found under search “war victims.” The link is broken.
