Broken bones, heartbreaking poems,
And heartbroken poets trying to break bone.
They said things that almost broke my funny bone
But I yet smiled. Tragedies are a joke.
They painted the world dark red, and gave us tears to drink,
Stuffed rocks of salt down our throats and filled our IVs with ink,
Flipped the world upside down so New Zealand was old,
And preached such venom to grammar, she woke from her coma.
Bold or stupid.
And still they wrote, still they spoke, these new chiefs.
Shouted in the streets till the avenues would lose sleep,
Till the skyscrapers peered down from the blue sheets,
For this day, they’d see crowned the new king of loose leaf.
When the ink ran out, they filled their pens with blood,
And when the paper was filled they tore at the walls.
Oh what a colourful day for their sorrowful ways.
Yet still I felt joy. The end was at hand.
Then a low rumble was heard, and a bright light from the right
I said, stay humble my heart, and walked away to the left
And like flies to a lamp, they ran for the light
If only they weren’t about their rights, if only they had left.
My job there was done. Yet another for the shelves.
How to kill a poet, let them kill themselves.