many sides to Rosey

16,739 poems read

You sit behind
That big desk
In your office
Like a puppet master

With pasty, waxy skin
Beaky nose and beady eyes
In an old, dusty suit,
The farm at your hands

From day to day, you run the farm,
The funeral home and the slaughterhouse
With power we dare not question, and
A dead, black heart

Rearranged the farm, you surely did
Giving people no time nor voice,
Only to throw them into dark stalls
And covering your eyes with a paper

You rewarded the terrible,
Stroked the cows, milked them happily,
Played the innocent and the good,
Mixing deadly potions together

You gave false hope,
Building and setting us up
For great let-downs
And promised dates came and went

You laugh and coo
With your dead relatives,
Then in the next heartbeat,
It's off to the slaughterhouse for us

You claim you wanted more conversations
Then you are offended, for
Your time is too precious for living things
That the dead need not to be bothered with

You hide bodies
From your embalmers
Then you spring a last minute funeral on them
The wake, the funeral and the burial

You robbed the funeral directors blind,
Overstepped their power, and chose a heifer
That had no business at a funeral
To run the home

Chaos and mayhem,
Uncertainity and darkness,
Brought them all to the farm, you surely did
You masterful, dead puppet master

- 2/24/17