I sit in my beloved library at 34,
Reading forbidden books behind locked door,
I guard here the tomes I’m not supposed to read,
A shelf full of Rush, and North whose views I must not heed,
The old Pat Buchanan’s, the Hannity’s, the Newts,
My dog-eared O’Reillys, and the Coulters so dear,
Should I turn down the light, should I read here in fear?
I know soon they’ll come for my Factor Gear,

Their revolution is here whether we like it or not,
It seems that they beat us without firing a shot.
Their insidious tactics took us unaware,
Shredding our once proud culture bare,

In a few short decades they’ve laid us to waste,
Their crimes too long for any reasonable space,
We called them the lefties, the liberals, the elites,
Now they’ve become the dreaded thought police,

Already they dictate how we may speak,
They steer what we read,
And tell us what to think,

They’ve rewritten our history and destroyed our heroes,
Replacing them with various lefty zeroes,
They still have a warm spot for old Uncle Joe,
Will they never learn our friends from our foes?

What year will it be when they crash through my door,
To fire my books and throw me to the floor?
When will it be that they’re finally here,
When will they come for my Factor Gear?

Long is the list of the evils they claim,
Longer still the list of our heroes whose names they’ve defamed,

Now they tell us that Columbus and Washington and old Hickory were devils,
Endless charges of intolerance and insensitivity do they level,

They tell us we’re stupid or loony or both,
Who else would ever cast a republican vote?

A culture of apology and confession,
Our begging forgiveness their daily obsession.

Their mantras – diversity and political correctness,
That’s the dogma of the fair-minded friendly leftists.

The day’s long since here that we can’t speak our minds,
They’ve rewritten the dictionary and laid it with mines
How long until Fox is thrown off the air?
Can’t I speak how I like, why isn’t that fair?

How old will I be when they break through my door,
To burn my books and toss me to the floor?
My seventies? My sixties? Could it happen that soon?
Could it happen in my forties, or tomorrow at noon?

They’ll take my worn volumes of Rush and old Pat Buchanan,
They’ll shred my Hannity’s, and my O’Reilly’s and my Coulter’s so dear,
Will they leave me a single piece of my Factor Gear?

****
THE MIGHTY DEED
by Glenn G. Thater , 1990.

They say that in the past month
Eight citizens of Dyvers town were ripped asunder
By a horrid monster who wailed like thunder.

The first victim the town Doctor – old Jim Drake,
Found floating headless in a nearby lake.

The second little David Toth,
His arms and legs all ripped off.

Next was Wally the homeless beggar,
Found dead in the road by Boyd the mayor.

Five others were killed by the degenerate vile creature,
Including Kacser the mad old magic teacher.

No one lived who’d seen the evil creature,
Except for Reverend Bog the township’s preacher.

He spied the monster from the church’s tower
The night it killed old Mr. Fowler.

But since that fateful eerie night
The Reverend hasn’t overcome his fright.

He’s not able to recall the terrible tale,
He can only remember the monstrous wail.

The townsfolk knew something must be done
To make these killings cease,
Somehow someone must restore the peace.

So a council meeting was called by the township’s mayor,
There they decided to hire a monster slayer.

It must be a knight of fame and renown,
Only one such as this could save the town.

So the call for aid went out far and wide,
And soon appeared a knight who’d take the township’s side.

He rode into town one morning bright,
All came out to see the wondrous sight
Of the world’s most feared and famous knight.

Announcing before him ran the town crier,
Everyone he passed bowed and called him sire.

The knight’s blue-enameled armor glistened in the morning sun,
It must have weighed as least a ton.

Around his waste hung a sword and sheath
The size of which was beyond belief.

‘Twas a broadsword of six feet in length,
What human man could possess such strength

To wield a sword the likes of which
A frost giant could not lift an inch.

But the man was huge – perhaps seven feet in height,
Truly a great and powerful knight.

At his side hung a huge silver shield,
This too into battle he would wield.

In his left hand he held a mighty silver lance,
Its magical dweomer could be seen at a glance.

As for his steed,
There was none better,
His saddle made of the finest leather,
And atop his war helm a large blue feather.

As he rode by the crowds let out a thunderous cheer
For the proud and noble Cavalier.

For in all the land there was no man greater,
Than the knight they called Lord Angle Theta.

***
If the above excerpt from the poem “The Mighty Deed” has caught your attention and you’d like to read more – please click on the comment button below and let me know. I’m considering including the full version of this poem in an upcoming collection of my stories that will be available for purchase from Amazon.com

***
ONLY KNIGHTS–

Knights are gone,
Heroes are cowards,
Brave men are fools, and
Brave heroes are only myths and legends.

Knights are days,
Monsters fall,
Beneath the shining sun.

In Battle,
Knights wield swords,
Heroes use shields,
Brave men charge,
Brave heroes wield powers unknown.

Into battle, Knights ride horses,
Brave men charge,
Brave heroes appear, and
Heroes are nowhere to be seen.

All:
Knights are gone,
Heroes are liars,
Brave men are dead,
And brave heroes never were.