Ego Divinely Inspired, By Brian37 (OF RATIONAL RESPONDERS, all rights reserved)
The Twin accordions,
Burned and crumbled like match sticks,
No longer playing the music,
Of the briefcase.
3,000 ways,
To say, "I hate you"
But on that day,
None of the quad-Kamikazes
Shouted "Bonsai"
But Allah had his say.
Yet the burning Bush,
In the Marlboro Mansion,
Prays 1600 times,
To guide the bombs,
That maim and kill,
Creating massive tombs.
Do they think,
They are back in school,
Swinging on monkey bars,
Bragging about the biceps
Of their origins?
Is this what humanity has been reduced to?
I don't remember,
Those accordions,
Ever playing monochromatic music,
Jesus, yet be,
The only Icon,
Displayed in their absence.
That day,
Is not the ulcer of Genesis,
Or the embarrassment of Mohammed,
It is the manifestation of shame,
That humanity doesn't listen,
To the music of the accordions.
One side attacks,
The other points the finger,
But no one listens to the screams,
The screams of history.
Stop!
It is not your day, Christians,
It is not your Jihad, Muslims.
It is your stupidity,
In claiming the monopoly,
Of self-righteousness.
Those accordions,
Played the music of desire,
Of those of the Mosque,
Those in the pew,
The music of the Yammica,
And long earlobes too.
The forecast that day,
Called for morning snow,
Each flake a fragment,
Of invoices, and resumes,
Of proposals, and payrolls.
This was a ticker tape parade,
Where loathing sat in the convertable,
Waving his fist maniacally at the by-standers,
Daring history to repeat itself.
Screaming of divine intervention.
And the burning Bush,
Responded in kind,
And prayed to his absolute,
Screaming for divine inspiration.
The memory of the music,
The accordions used to play,
Should not be lost in selfish idealism.
Demanding only one way.
Jesus was not the only victim,
Nor Bush, nor me,
The attack on the towers,
Was an attack on humanity.
The cross is the only,
Outlined in chalk,
Crime scene investigators,
Step over the corpses,
Of Yahweh and Allah,
Visnu and Buddha too.
The white cards,
Never marked their graves,
Ever to be photographed.
Still today,
We want Moore Religion,
Massive stones marking our territory,
Like a lion pissing on a bush,
And wonder why we are attacked.
You fools,
It's not the book you read,
It is your arrogance,
In loading the 3:57
And praying for divine guidance,
For the bullets to hit their mark,
So you can maintain your selfish status qoe.
I can give you nine hundred and eleven,
Reasons in human history,
Ego divinely inspired,
Will lead to the human pyre.
Or kin of past,
Or so we claim,
Have past discretions,
We're not to blame.
My index,
Is not aimed at you,
It is of lessons not learned,
Wisdom not earned.
Socrates was in those towers,
He too was a victim,
Made to drink the hemlock,
And jump from the accordion,
Grasping at the last notes of life.
Vainly clawing at the sky,
A victim of pantheistic zealots,
Ending in a gruesome thump.
Galileo too,
Crashed into the marble walls,
Numbering in five.
Because of the ego,
Of the cross,
The world is flat,
And I'm the boss.
Yet in modern day,
The accordions play,
Morbid notes of ego's say,
It will continue to our dismay.
Yes, it will continue,
Least religious ego,
Give up it's venue.
The Twin accordions,
Burned and crumbled like match sticks,
No longer playing the music,
Of the briefcase.
3,000 ways,
To say, "I hate you"
But on that day,
None of the quad-Kamikazes
Shouted "Bonsai"
But Allah had his say.
Yet the burning Bush,
In the Marlboro Mansion,
Prays 1600 times,
To guide the bombs,
That maim and kill,
Creating massive tombs.
Do they think,
They are back in school,
Swinging on monkey bars,
Bragging about the biceps
Of their origins?
Is this what humanity has been reduced to?
I don't remember,
Those accordions,
Ever playing monochromatic music,
Jesus, yet be,
The only Icon,
Displayed in their absence.
That day,
Is not the ulcer of Genesis,
Or the embarrassment of Mohammed,
It is the manifestation of shame,
That humanity doesn't listen,
To the music of the accordions.
One side attacks,
The other points the finger,
But no one listens to the screams,
The screams of history.
Stop!
It is not your day, Christians,
It is not your Jihad, Muslims.
It is your stupidity,
In claiming the monopoly,
Of self-righteousness.
Those accordions,
Played the music of desire,
Of those of the Mosque,
Those in the pew,
The music of the Yammica,
And long earlobes too.
The forecast that day,
Called for morning snow,
Each flake a fragment,
Of invoices, and resumes,
Of proposals, and payrolls.
This was a ticker tape parade,
Where loathing sat in the convertable,
Waving his fist maniacally at the by-standers,
Daring history to repeat itself.
Screaming of divine intervention.
And the burning Bush,
Responded in kind,
And prayed to his absolute,
Screaming for divine inspiration.
The memory of the music,
The accordions used to play,
Should not be lost in selfish idealism.
Demanding only one way.
Jesus was not the only victim,
Nor Bush, nor me,
The attack on the towers,
Was an attack on humanity.
The cross is the only,
Outlined in chalk,
Crime scene investigators,
Step over the corpses,
Of Yahweh and Allah,
Visnu and Buddha too.
The white cards,
Never marked their graves,
Ever to be photographed.
Still today,
We want Moore Religion,
Massive stones marking our territory,
Like a lion pissing on a bush,
And wonder why we are attacked.
You fools,
It's not the book you read,
It is your arrogance,
In loading the 3:57
And praying for divine guidance,
For the bullets to hit their mark,
So you can maintain your selfish status qoe.
I can give you nine hundred and eleven,
Reasons in human history,
Ego divinely inspired,
Will lead to the human pyre.
Or kin of past,
Or so we claim,
Have past discretions,
We're not to blame.
My index,
Is not aimed at you,
It is of lessons not learned,
Wisdom not earned.
Socrates was in those towers,
He too was a victim,
Made to drink the hemlock,
And jump from the accordion,
Grasping at the last notes of life.
Vainly clawing at the sky,
A victim of pantheistic zealots,
Ending in a gruesome thump.
Galileo too,
Crashed into the marble walls,
Numbering in five.
Because of the ego,
Of the cross,
The world is flat,
And I'm the boss.
Yet in modern day,
The accordions play,
Morbid notes of ego's say,
It will continue to our dismay.
Yes, it will continue,
Least religious ego,
Give up it's venue.
