Twenty-Seventeen

The weather is drear
And none save my dog is near.
The new year
Beccons
As seconds
Are here then gone.
The clock’s hands move on
Towards twenty-seventeen.
I have no magic screen
To gaze into the future, but stupidity
And that age-old vice cupidity
Will, I venture to maintain
Continue to reign.

The human race
Has a face
Half devil and part divine.
There is a fine
Line
Between the two.
Looking through
History one finds dreams of utopia turning to hell,
Yet one can not tell
The idealist that he is wrong,
For he will answer you with the same old song,
“If everyone did such and such then all would be well”!
But we are saints with feet of clay
And the utopian’s way
Leads many to stray
Down the path to the ever lasting bonfire
Where the desire
To do good ends in the Gulag and the stamp
Of the fanatic’s boot in the concentration camp.

Small acts of kindness matter
And oft times achieve more than the chatter
Of those
Who would dragoon
Humanity into neat little rows.
And believe there is a man in the moon.

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