We can’t be glad, why do we even try?
They’ve stolen all my precious joy, mama!
Our lives are over, but we’re not ready to die.
We’ve certainly admired the circuitry—
the train ride to Montgomery, Alabama,
and back—we wanted to help, but we couldn’t really try.
And now we’re sure we’re being asked to comply
with a program to obliterate Obama.
Our lives would be over. Would we be ready to die
for beliefs we hold in firmest surety,
unswayed by all the glitz and glamor,
but wanting to always try to be glad,
find non-insistent patterns in the tapestry,
hints of pale blue eyes, amorous
trysts in the corn before we die?
Gladness beaming its golden filigree?—
Must be Jesus, must be Dhama.
We can’t be glad? Why do we even try?—
We have eternal life, and we’re ready to die.
