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Good morning class
Today i shall demonstrate how to disarm a grenade,
using the fine art of charades.

And that is how to disarm a grenade.
Class dismissed.
The next day these pupils got sent out to war
to iraq, to afghanistan, those poor,
poor souls.
They're all dead.
War is Dramatic
Sometimes even Emphatic.
But never to be poked fun at.

Words fall apart
and temples collapse
on us as we pray
to the Grammar King,
He with the book of all things;
He with the all-knowing mind;
He of the World.

Then I write in the dust;
Where is the starting line?
How long must it be?

Stones plummet from cliff-faces
and hit us with unmitigated power
which rocks us, destroys us,
and we stand and smile
as the worlds disappear,
and masked men with
painted smiles tell us
everything’s fine,
we’ll pull through.

Then we chant in unison;
Why do we speak so?

Hills of golds and greens
watch us with wild eyes
of strange creatures who live by darkness
and hunt with their brethren,
catching the weak amongst us
with claws like sabres
and teeth like claws.

Tearing, chewing.
They live for us.

Pianos make a stand against dexterity
of the masses, with wires
plucked and keys disassembled.
They warn us of our follies
and promise never to sound as sweet again
unless we avert our disastrous ways,
for they know that we cannot
survive with a musicless script
to play our meaningless lives by.
There will be no string quartet
when our Makers arrive,
creeping up the driveway,
rapping noiselessly on our doors,
not waiting for the response.

Then the music starts,
and we dance to the stars.

Our words don’t rhyme
and the rhythm is gone,
but the youthfulness and eager nature
we always have shown,
still shine on, although rather dimly,
and we can still see our paths.

And the lights go out,
and we join those creatures on the hill.

We will wait in the trees and bushes
and bide our time until the next
dominant species cast their wicked glances
toward our little hill, and they will
see their future in the veins of the leaves.