A shithole is a shithole
by any other name.
Our minds are bright and wits full.
We will not play the game,
pretending not to mark
boatloads of refugees,
their faces savage, stark
and eager for freebies.
Norwaywards we look,
to lads and lasses fair,
where good folk pull their weight—
not to turds in a dry brook
where the gorilla stares.
Yes, we know love from hate.
15 January 2018
Mihai Eminescu: Romania’s Morning Star
“He Doesn’t Worry Too Much If Mediocre People Get Killed in Wars and Such” Tito Perdue’s The Smut Book & Cynosura
Jalal El-Kadali’s Oyster Mountain
If White Privileges Were Real
Remembering Rudyard Kipling (December 30, 1865-January 18, 1936)
The Plymouth 400 SymposiumRobert Frost’s “Directive”: A Quintessential Yankee Poem by New England’s Quintessential Yankee Poet
Heroic Road Songs
I Knew You When Your Eyes Were Blue