The Sick Man of EuropeA Poem by ArezzoObserve my words, and mark them well: Slovenia, Scotland, Senegal, Spain -- no country known this side of hell does anything, except for gain.
The big ones beat the small ones up, and chain them into slavery. No plea, appeal, passkey, prenup, no getout clause, no referee.
If grunts are on the ground somewhere (like, say, Gaddafi’s former haunts) for sure, it’s not to take the air: there’s something there the White House wants.
Jack London told of husky teams and Fenimore, Mohicans: the strong will spoliate, it seems, a running-mate who weakens.
By 1850 it was clear that Ottoman days were numbered. Outmoded, feckless, based on fear, top-heavy, crude, encumbered
by obscurantist practices, corruption -- Turkey lost its rudder. The rest said, “Time to grasp, this is, the bovine by its udders!”
The Bosphorus, Jerusalem, Greece, Albania, Bulgaria -- the big boys queued to take a piece -- and who knew which was scarier?
The Thousand Cuts, with ifs and buts, while handing round the saw, or savaging the quarry’s guts in all-in, all-out, war?
The Berlin Conference, seventy-eight, a bid to stop the slaughter: but far too little, far too late -- its words were writ on water.
The Germans wanted colonies, the British, Cyprus, Rhodes: the Russians, ports that didn’t freeze: the Habsburgs, not to implode.
Around the corpse the vultures came to claim their pound of flesh. You think today it’s not the same? It’s happening afresh! © 2015 ArezzoAuthor's Note
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Added on September 22, 2015 Last Updated on September 22, 2015 AuthorArezzoRonda, Andalucia, SpainAboutI always try to avoid this part! What can I possibly say that will come across as fresh/interesting/informative? Let's see ... Teacher, lawyer and journalist. Born in Ireland, raised in Englan.. more..Writing
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