In dim dawn, an evil does creep,
Spawned from hell that rests so deep.
In light of day, are dreadful sights,
Our great citizens have lost their rights.
America cries.
Iniquity now blights our shore,
The bell of freedom chimes no more.
Liberty’s song has lost its tune,
Has this nation met its doom?
America cries.
Proud Harbor Lady, once so strong,
Wonders how we went so wrong.
With frail hand, she caps her torch,
Now darkness hangs upon the port.
America cries.
Yet, we know from whence the terror came,
Will redemption be in vain?
In deep of night, a trumpet blew,
Power given to the chosen few.
America cries.
Is that rumble the sound of thunder,
Or ideals torn asunder?
In the street, spreads rampant fear,
As we lose our rights so dear.
America cries.
Sing no more, sweet nation’s choir,
For all our lands are on fire.
As dread extends from shore to shore,
The laws of justice rule no more.
America cries.
~ C. N. Sky ~
I wrote this poem as I was thinking about socioeconomic inequality.
Doesn’t Matter
It’s heave, it’s throw,
My life it doesn’t matter.
It’s lift, it’s pull,
Can’t climb the rich man’s ladder.
I see the guys in snappy suits,
Gents sittin’ in the shade,
While I swelter in the gutter,
Cleanin’ the mess they made.
It’s tug, it’s tow,
My life it doesn’t matter.
It’s grind, it’s roll,
Can’t get to what I’m after.
I’d like a fancy mansion,
At the end of money street,
But how can I get more schooling,
When I work three shifts all week?
It’s sweep, it’s hoe,
My kids’ lives, they don’t matter.
It’s dig, it’s sow,
Nothing makes me sadder.
My girl went to a grocery store,
And she came home in despair,
‘cause the kid behind her shouted,
She has cooties in her hair!
It’s scrub, it’s sew,
My kids’ lives, they don’t matter.
It’s wash, it’s stow,
The babies’ clothes are tattered.
I want to teach my children
The manners of the well-to-do,
But we can’t go where the rich go,
Without fancy clothes or shoes.
It’s trick, it’s duel,
Our lives, they don’t matter.
It’s taunt, it’s fool,
Can’t join the rich man’s banter.
We don’t have their fancy words,
No one listens to what we say,
And how can we smell like flowers,
Workin’ in the ovens for pay?
It’s lie, it’s cajole,
Our lives, they don’t matter.
It’s arrest, it’s parole,
Our hopes have all been shattered.
Rich folks live in luxury
After drinking too much wine,
But the drunkard in the alley
Goes to prison to serve time.
It’s heave, it’s throw,
Our lives, they don’t matter.
It’s lift, it’s pull,
Can’t climb the rich man’s ladder.
– C. N. Sky