The Crocodile Tear

You sit there, wiping your crocodile tear
from an oily face stuffed with the worker’s sweat
that you snatch year after year.
Greasy fists clutch a big white monogrammed handkerchief
bought specially for such occasions,
meant to attract maximum attention.
I watch and wonder how you stand yourself,
I wonder if you sleep at night, or if you lost the fight a long time ago
to demons that bought and paid for you,
and made you power hungry.

You stand to address the mourning crowd,
and struggle to squeeze another weak tear out.
Pretence of sympathy while shouting aloud,
as you look around the horde;
guilty, but mostly afraid they will lash out.
The masses know you were there, you see,
when your thugs shot that innocent child.
You didn’t stop the shooting, you lout.
Tucked behind beefy bodyguards the workers’ money provides.
You watched the child die like a dog with nowhere to hide.

And now the child you come to put in the ground,
Another innocent life lost to feed your greed,
He bled to death from things he knew nothing about,
Escaping helmeted goons you set loose
Like rabid dogs that kill without thought or mind.

Here you stand, you hooligan.
With a lying heart you pretend to mourn,
while in the same beat you campaign.
And let the people dig their own graves,
Through lying lips your own way you pave,
And tell the seven year old’s parents to be brave.
For when you look around all that you see,
is yet another foolish crowd to deceive.

PoP (c)Nov 8 05