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JOB OF MODERN DAYS
War rages, and the finest soldiers die,
The Nation’s best and brightest fines men,
While others ‘mongst the debris rubble cry
That Charlie wreaked,- the dreadful hurricane.
But rhapsodists seem of this unaware,
And do their thing,- their thing,- as normally,
It happened not to me, nor mine,- why care
If others rot in slime and misery?
A 96-year old man sits midst the shards
Of shattered fragments of his pious life,
Lost all he had, and broken is his heart ,
For taken from him was the last - his wife.
And no one else to go has this old man,-
Who’ll dry his tears or suffocate a curse
Of him who sits upon a metal can
This poorest and most helpless man on earth!
It’s hard for rhapsodists to emphasize,-
All wrapped up and engrossed in verse and rhyme,
Ignoring guns and blood and victims cries
Of shattered lives, brute war, and hideous crimes..
“I am not hurt, not me, -not me, nor mine“,
Declaims the highly gifted rhapsodist,
"Its others,-- but not me - why cry and whine?
We need with some promoter friends a tryst!.
Who’ll comfort the Job of modern day?
That sits on rubble, parched, or on bare sod,
Not righteous friends like Job did have , - twe pray
Be they consoled and comforted by God!
