Gratitude

I am the books my father bought;
My sisters read; my mother taught;
And every thing I ever thought,
Or did, has roots in books I got.
When I held back, or when I fought,
The cornerstone for all and naught,
Was knowledge that in books I sought.
With mind at ease, or tempest tossed,
Therein I found what I had lost.
Before my bones begin to rot,
Aware that I can't write a jot,
Or for my children do a lot,
I’ll buy some books, ignore the cost!
So they’ll be books their father bought.



Grr-Attitude:



If I could, I would,
Grant you every last glutinous drop of oil
That you have set your thirsty sights on.
Oh, I’d let you bathe in it and be baptized,
And let you drink it straight out of the soil
And be satisfied. With a vast and almost endless straw
Sticking out of your gluttonous face,
Let fossil fuels fill the empty space where your heart used to beat.
And when you’ve sucked it all up,
When you’ve finally, finally had your fill,
And worshipped fully your black mother goddess,
Who incites you thus to kill,
I will set you on fire;
I will set you on fire and watch your skies burn.
And I will not hate you. And I will not pity you.
I shall not think of you. With complete indifference,
I will stand with my back to your flaming carcass,
Writhing and shrieking in the pitch-scarlet night like civilian casualties.