How illogical,
this is simply laughable:
that Captain, my Captain
would call his fighters
to the field
to fight a force that doesn’t yield
to fight their flames
and all His fighters hold
are swords and shields
How cruel!
this can’t be fighting
fought with rules
or ethics,
when under all their armor,
all his fighters all are peasants
fighting trickery and lies,
pretty ladies eyes,
money, fame and cheating smiles
How mean!
this can’t be a fair fight
on top of that they fight
at night!
Of all the times to fight this fight
Against their cruel and snarling opponent
At night!
this isn’t fair!
this isn’t right!
but then again,
amidst my gall
I think of how my Captain
was born in a city—
small
in a haven far from that of heaven’s walls
grew up like a root,
lived among his fighters
walked and wept
ate, perspired
tired
until one day
evil men came with primitive lighters
and orders
to kill Him
arrayed in blame
and
Crushed!
for all his peasant would-be fighters
He fought and conquered
armed His men with swords and shields
called them to the field
to shame the giants with their fancy gadgets of allure
and the peasants wearing all their armor
leaning on my Captain
we were never called to a fair fight
