Where Will The Children Go

When bombs of hate explode and bits of bodies fly in one more episode of hatred, some will cry. But others sit up high and speak with forked tongue they keep their powder dry watch commoners be hung. The poet said it best who did observe the preachers who dream of being blessed and function as our teachers. He said that they drink wine from crystal in the shade then sway but rise and shine to speak pure lemonade. As Goethe said so clearly where wine goes in the snout no matter if we dearly just hope, what does come out is strange and lacks conviction as thoughts are scrambled now this pitiful addiction is common and shows how old Heine spoke of water that's given in return by those whose only daughter is seldom of concern lest people miss the essence the booze is not to blame it is an obvious presence, the drunkenness of shame. It's power from the masses extracted by deceiving by egomaniac asses while we can do the grieving. When all the ropes are torn and only blank spots show a new age will be born, where will the children go?