Although sometimes it might seem wise
to drain the swamp, to toss the junk,
it's not our right to septembrise,
or murder an obnoxious punk.
Yet, such has always been our way,
for reasoned argument's eschewed;
it doesn't seem a stretch to say
that strife and bloodshed is our food.
This species will itself destroy,
it's not our way to get along.
We fight on, endlessly, with joy
and wonder where it all went wrong.
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Author Notes
Septembrise (v.) to murder someone for political reasons.
The events of September 11, 2001 didn't directly inspire this poem, but thinking about them reminds me that the older I get, the less I have any faith in humanity as a species.
My much-treasured Christmas present for 2017 is a book by Paul Anthony Jones: "The cabinet of linguistic curiosities". Each page contains a descriptive story about some obscure or archaic word. It occurred to me it would be a fun exercise to try and write, each day, a poem featuring the "word of the day" from the book.
Thanks for reading.
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