Behind the Picket Fence

Pennsylvania Avenue,
the place the buck stops.
Iron rails separate them,
excluding the people from the country
and no one knowing what they want.

All flocking to this place
with shouts of no more war
drowned out by protestors against gun control.
Democracy at work in a world
gone mad with grief and pain.

America,
America!
How proud of you are we?
Flags hung high by those
behind white picket fences.

So here they stand on picket lines
to make their voices heard.
One woman wails
- 'bring my boys home
I didn't bring them up to die for you.'

And history repeats itself
with Dylan a long faded memory.
Maybe it was all a dream.
Dear God let it all just be
some strange nightmarish dream.

But in little America they watch
as the world turns it's back.
Isolationists now totally isolated
And we'll all stand and look at them
behind the picket fence.


Poem by - Emma Crofts. © 2007 CanadianCulture.com all rights reserved.

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