“The greatest honor history can bestow is the title of peacemaker.”
By the way Glenn Miller played
songs that made the hit parade,
guys like you, you had it made,
but never took the insult or the irony.
Archie was a derisive joke
when he talked about coloreds
and spics and fags
and wops, but you
you were in outraged earnest,
religiously recording your feelings
about niggers and dagos
and wetbacks and, of course,
“those Jew cocksuckers.”
Only when Archie showed shocking
compassion for an old friend did
you identify his urge to “celebrate homosex”
as the very thing that
killed the Greeks.
Meanwhile, you dreamed with dictators
(Commie ones at that,
“right down to their underwear”);
wistfully pondered the wholesale drowning
of at least two hundred thousand,
before thinking it might be better
to go nuclear instead.
(“Have we got that ready, Henry?”).
Even at home, you fancied the utter immolation
of all those who thought against you.
And every day that you were there,
your nutcutters got together
and decided how to make
your dreams come true.
They sprinkled sulphur in your
thinning hair, and meekly asked just
what you’d like to do.
(c) Michael Quentin Abraham, 2016.