The Union prisoners sitting in their dirty cells waiting for the Civil War to end and for their liberators to flow in from the North would sing:
- In the prison cell I sit,
- Thinking Mother dear, of you,
- And our bright and happy home so far away,
- And the tears they fill my eyes
- Spite of all that I can do,
- Tho' I try to cheer my comrades and be gay.
Chorus:
- Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching,
- Cheer up comrades they will come,
- And beneath the starry flag
- We shall breathe the air again,
- Of the freeland in our own beloved home.
- It's the middle of June and Election Day draws closer, each day. I tell myself that no Idiot Rich Kid (IRK) could take over the Presidency of the United States of America .... I tell myself that no poseur could convince a plurality of Americans that their promises of Pie in the Sky that only they can bake are realistic ... that no such pretender ... no such Deuteronomic False Prophet could trick so many. Yet, I see that many are those that will follow one such as he.I suppose by coincidence, a number of people have recently bemoaned that folk just don't return calls, lately. A small thing. A trivial thing. But some indication of just how rude we have become. One,
nowadays, feels it's just fine to be rude ... killing has become a daily event. Call MacCain a loser ... Hilary Clinton? a lying swine! Attack all who may mourn for those others who we have killed ... we only mourn those who fall who wear our own uniforms. That IS our tragedy, I suppose.Sophocles wrote a play about a young woman engaged to a prince who mourns a brother who fought on the wrong side of a war and is sentenced, therefore, to death. 'The President's apology tour makes him a traitor,' says IRK, the Little Orange Man.I took a professional haircut for the first time in over 45 years. People have asked me "why"? I tell them that I don't know. Am I celebrating a period of mourning? Maybe. For all the dead in Orlando and those in Iraq and Syria and the Sudan and Israel and Gaza. For the threatened death of the American Dream of decency and kindness.Trump! Trump! Trump! The Wrong Boys are Marching to the Bog!
Or, at least, I fear that the footfalls I hear in the distance do not presage redemption!
