On weekends, the people get so bored
With the athletes paid to parade before us
There: the hockey rink, the basketball court, the arena
There, the players prepare to battle for our pleasure.
Businessmen become ringside heroes
and prize bimbos strut as cheerleaders.
Who can say of what they’re made
that the testosterone ones turn and bray,
then, suddenly, they’ve swelled, bloodied and battered.
Who can say of what they dream,
those entertainers now drowned in the inflamed screams
spewed from the mouths of the multitudes—
On Sundays the athletes get so bored
When required to suffer for us.
They line up for their cortisone boosts
while mobs everywhere chant for revenge,
and when results bequeath only broken bones,
the mobs cry out with disgruntled groans:
A signal for businessmen to display Machismo
And use women to echo their punching blows.
Every day we news whores get so bored
waiting for the other to drop dead for us
The bombs will reign down and the mob will drool
The blood will pour and bodies stack up—
Then the businessmen become champions,
and in triumph, we all scream and shout,
praising the necessary assault.
And when those in the way finally fell
Did not the victims dream of some hell
Where war mongers and worn-out soldiers still burn
Or perhaps with their last breaths
Would the scapegoats not pardon us their deaths
Knowing what we did—or did not do—
The Killing Fields
Special thanks to Jaques Brell’s song “The Bulls”
and to Picasso for Guernica