Has its proper end — not
A man with graying hair runs past
Towards what?
I ask myself;
Into death’s arms perhaps
A more honest opponent
Than all these supposed
Brothers in arms
All of them liars on payroll
So if it’s true that
Power corrupts
Then it is best
If I'm as far away from it
As East is from West
Before it erupts
What little good I have
I’d like to keep
But poor Kipling hadn’t heard
That there is a country
Tall and proud
Where it is to no gain
Of either, but
The twain do meet
—
Provincial and ordinary
We do swim
In the muck of our making
No bootstrap will work here
The mercy we all need
To save us from our pettiness
Is not from a president
It is not from the pat on the back
From some mandarin of the East
Or official of the West
No places high or low can show
What you should already have
Burnt into your heart
And etched onto your lips:
“Oh, that my ways were steadfast
in obeying your decrees!”
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