There he shrugged
boasting of his mission
while a great task lay before
the staring eyes of the world.
Plucked from his river
bed soft as a baby otter
he sees the injustice of the world
and having taken his place
in the house of Pharoah
his mind too narrow
to do more than snap,
he isn't going to do crap
to remind of us of
his imagined avatar
but to be sitting in a stalled car
overseeing an exodus.
You who sit by the fragrant smoke,
you, punters, never having carried a spear,
hear me in this arena, for I speak
of the man who has fought here
and never left.
Shame on us if
having placed a mantle of duty
upon old shoulders, 'tis we
who wince at the weight
and mock his white hairs.
You complain you are in
the shade of a colossus
from under this banner,
as he stands in the heat.
Were we ready to shoulder this burden
as if young Atlas ourselves?
Who with such speed and certainty
came to stand in this gap?
(Who are these, the
grasshopper champions who wake
having slumbered so long
and can do nothing but spit?)
Our generation has shrugged at
the heft of the world--
who would now leave it
to these idle hands?
To your feet!
A Herculean task awaits--
stables are in need of clearing
and hydra-headed woes
have need of your torch.
