The kings,
They come in caravans to die
And they bring with them their servants.
And their jewels stay with them
When they are buried
One hundred years apart
In the back yard.
And their graves
Fall down
And are removed
For paving stones
And the road that the kings arrived on
Is called Kings Highway.
Now cars race along that way
Right off the edge
And are buried and so on.
And doesn’t this sound familiar?
The lights turn green;
They let the cars go,
And then they turn red as blood
And they stop and are buried.
And the cars rust
And turn to dust.
And now we’re having dinner
In a busy restaurant
And the old man excuses himself
And gets up to use the bathroom…
For the rest of this new poem by ThisCantBeHappening! resident poet GARY LINDORFF, please go to: https://thiscantbehappening.net/patriarchy-how-it-ends/