Colin F. Jones


The polite thunder of the citizens’ guns,
Make rubble for their daughters and sons
Tis the consequence of riot and unrest
That defeats the obesity of rich conquest.
But manacled by their trust in God,
Their ponies stand tethered and unshod;
Their shields hang reluctant with rust,
Because in a false protector they trust.
The sword in the hand of a believer,
Though fashioned for the determined achiever,
Is as blunt as the broken edge of a spear,
By one held to ransom by religious fear.
But in their apathy and fear of dispute,
There cometh not God – but a brute.