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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

A poem I wrote after learning about the School of the Americas, a training camp for would-be Central American dictators operated by our own government in Georgia. WARNING: Contains adult language

Submitted: July 20, 2018

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Submitted: July 20, 2018





all pardons on us, most heavenly father,

for we have had your wives for breakfast.


revolution should be a poor man's fist,

covered in shit and fleeting promises;

we do not deal in subtleties here,

this is not a finishing school.


georgia's beautiful in the summertime,

when young men's fancies turn to rape;

georgia's lovely in the wintertime,

when old despots' thoughts turn to action.


when the peepholes start squealing freedom, freedom-

who am i to stand on their filthy necks,

who am i to display their broken bodies,

who am i to enjoy the fruits of their children?


i am the well-trained way, der Truth, das Light,

no man comes to know power but through me,

i am the grass that grew high at Austerlitz,

(i still work.)


pardons on all of us,

ye heavenly hosts,

for we have used your servants

as bulletin boards.


© Copyright 2019 Michael Pollick. All rights reserved.

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