Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber

The world today is split in two

… or three... or four... or maybe more,

but nonetheless, one must confess,

all wage their wars as heretofore.

While blunderbusses prey for us

within our world where gods deceive,

atomic war, white phosphorus

and napalm gel that burns, bereave.

Yes, Tweedledumb oft beats the drum

and pokes the pig and baits the boar

while tongues are wrung as songs are sung

distorting hymns of ‘Nevermore’.

And all the while the hordes defile

forgotten ghosts who haunt the coasts

awash in tears of crocodiles

who’ve lost the least but rue the most.

And Tweedledumber, somewhat glummer,

fills the sheath with claws and teeth

to arm the hacks and maniacs

who’ll dance the dance that death bequeaths.

Though blood runs red amongst the dead,

along the track the holes are black

and filled with human flesh in shreds -

for wily worms, a midnight snack.

In distant days, hell’s breeze ablaze,

death’s final wreath will sink beneath

ould yahoo’s wicked words that raise

the underworld from underneath.

But Hannibal, implacable,

is something weird and far more feared

by captured pawns within the squall

of sorry souls who’ve disappeared.

The devil deals the dead man’s hand

to Tweedledumber, Tweedledumb

who gamble in the promised land,

fill kingdom come with martyrdom.

Both Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber

slaying for more living space

have churned the chum throughout the summer -

carnage in a crowded place.

They worship warships, tanks galore,

cool macho stuff that’s sent to snuff �"

along the shore the cannons roar,

some loud enough to call God’s bluff.

While passing over fields of clover,

every breath still smells of death

that’s dropped by drones and other rovers

shaming freedom’s shibboleth.

When phones explode and lawns are mowed

while Tweedledumb, the reaper, strums,

royal boats on River Styx are rowed

by moneyed men with calloused thumbs.

When Tweedledumb can’t overcome

the famished flocks midst sands and rocks,

or clear the slum to rid the scum

he’ll talk the talk to hard-nosed hawks.

And they in turn, with naught to learn,

will flap their wings and pull the strings

of those who yearn the quick return

of sandbox kings that victory brings.

Yes Tweedledumber makes him happy

sending BB guns and bombs,

maintaining armies tough and scrappy

killing kids, their dads and moms.

Because the Tweedles have no qualms

effacing foes’ knees, heads and toes,

the pious pray and sing sad psalms

the while that thousands die in throes.