Sunday Morning

It’s Sunday morning bright and clear with no alarm I have to hear
No long commuting drive to fear that’s causing me to hurry.
No need to tie my ugly tie or lunch to grab as I dash by.
No business plans to satisfy about which I must worry.

I could go back to blissful sleep. I’ve no tight schedules I must keep
Or profits I must try to reap before the competition.
No staff to try to show the way nor fires to fight or minds to sway.
No bloody corporate games to play to safeguard my position.

To close my eyes again seemed right; no futile battles I must fight
Or bloody long reports to write or boss to whom to show ‘em
No reason I should leave my bed ……
….. So why’d I rush downstairs instead?
…… To catch these thoughts inside my head
….. And write this stupid poem!

This review was published in the prestigious Caribbean sailing magazine “All At Sea”.

For the Seasons Come and Go

Now the trees upon the ridge shed their autumn shrouds.

See the fallen red and gold.   Feel the nights start turning cold.

Bring the blankets from the drawer.  Watch those northern clouds,

Now the nights are getting longer every day.

Fetch the cordwood from the yard to a dryer space.

Check the water pipes won’t freeze.  Feel the sharp edge to the breeze.

Take your son on one last camp to your favourite place,

Then put canoes and summer thoughts away.

For the seasons come and go,

And you have to take the changes as they turn.

Winter freeze or summer burn.

When the warmth has turned to snow

You should have the winter planned out in your mind.

You should never fall behind

For the seasons won’t be kind if you don’t learn.

Bring the snowplough from the barn to the garage door.

Buy the wife another fleece.  Watch the southbound flights of geese.

Lay the feed in for the heard, order plenty more

For the weather channel’s warnings are severe.

Feel the ground start turning hard when the rains don’t fall.

See the silver on the lawn glisten more with every dawn.

Watch the squirrels build their nests.  Hear the ravens call,

Telling soon will be the ending of the year.

For the seasons come and go

And you have to change to suit their different needs.

Reap your crops or plant your seeds.

And their moods you have to know

For you must obey each need that they demand

And you have to understand

That when nature’s in command you can’t be slow.

So zip the lining in your coat.  Bring the seedlings in.

Check the lad’s boots aren’t your own, for his feet have surely grown.

See the salt trucks standing by as the snows begin.

Think of everything you still might need to do.

For your parents taught you well, through your growing days,

As you learned of nature’s truth, through the lessons of your youth.

So bring your boy up to the fire, teach him well those ways,

The time is come for him to know them too.

 For the seasons come and go

And the same as summer sun gives way to frost

So young innocence is lost,

And each year your son will grow

‘Till the day when he’ll be standing on his own,

Facing winter’s cold alone,

Giving thanks for all you’d shown he’d need to know.

 So now prepare him for that change as the seasons turn.

Fill his head with all he’ll need.  Plough the earth and plant the seed.

Show him well at every chance all he’ll need to learn,

For the winter will be here before you know.

See him grown to be a man.  Breath a saddened sigh.

Now you’ve helped him all you can you must follow nature’s plan,

And shake his hand and turn away as he says good bye.

For like summer’s warmth in fall he’s bound to go.

Here is my daughter, Courtney’s, take on her birth place on a Tropical island.

This appears as a guest entry in Book 2 of the Wanderings and Sojourns series, “On Tropical Islands and Sparkling Seas”.

The cool breeze ignites my senses

Refreshing my busy mind

Only the sound of the gently crashing waves can bring such tranquillity

Palm trees create dancing shadows across the beach

Immune to the stresses of the outside world

Coastlines coloured with white sands and emerald seas

An artist’s dream

Living is easy in a place of perfection

(Used by permission of Courtney Scherer-Scott ….. Copyright © Courtney Scherer-Scott 2010)

You see it etched upon his face as he looks out across the seas.

With the thirst for far horizons in his eyes.

He is watching from the shore like so many times before

Where he hears the wandering seabirds’ haunting cries.

And while he pulls his collar tight against the salty on-shore breeze

He is staring out beyond the windswept bay

Where across the white-capped waves rides the vision that he craves

Of the ship that’s going to carry him away.

Right then his heart starts pounding harder as he sees her tops’ls furled,

The t’galants, royals and courses gathered in.

With the stays’ls, fore and main, she falls off the wind again

So the reach toward the sea buoy can begin.

Then she’ll be making for the waterfront from half way round the world

Laden down with spices, cotton, tea and gold.

With her voyage almost run and the captains work but done

All that’s left is for her cargo to be sold.

Then she’ll replenish and set sail once more to seas and countries new.

There to open up more distant lands for trade.

And with her he must sail where the tropic winds prevail

And the tales that filled his childhood all were made.

Now he’s been waiting nine long days for her with nothing else to do

Since the owners said they’d sign him on next trip.

But now she’s come in sight as she sails across the bight

And by evening he’ll be safe aboard that ship.

So now the man upon the shore starts striding back toward the town

To the tavern by the dock where she’s to berth.

And he orders there a beer while his ship is drawing near,

Caring not how much he pays above its worth.

He sees the pilot climb aboard, the jibs and mains’ls taken down,

While the crew prepares the dock lines, bow and stern.

Once the channel marker’s passed then the tugs start making fast,

And he watches as she makes her final turn.

And then the heaving lines are thrown and all the ropes are hauled ashore

Then the ship is winched in snug against the quay.

With his kit bag in his hand he looks back upon the land

And then turns to breath the fragrance of the sea.

He then calls out to the Mate and tells him what he’s come there for.

Then he asks that he might be allowed to board.

And he’s shown where he’s to go to the quarters down below

Then they tell him where his kit should all be stored.

Now he can feel the subtle motion of the deck beneath his feet.

As he smells the pitch and linseed on the breeze.

He can hear the timbers creak and his fellow sailors speak

In the language of the people of the seas.

He feels a glowing deep inside himself, contentment now complete,

For he knows he’ll soon be ocean bound once more.

Where horizons never show of the next place he’s to go

Where no other ships have taken him before.

For he’s returned to live the life to which his vagrant soul was born,

Seeking each new land and ocean he can find.

Where the whims of wind and tide will his destiny decide,

And he’s no regrets for what he’s left behind.

So now he’s casting off the lines and heading out to meet the dawn.

Hoisting every sail to catch that morning breeze

And he turns to see the shore where he stood and watched before

Then he turns back to the freedom of the seas.

For his spirit’s now at rest as he steers toward the west

Where the calls of life and destiny prevail

Where the winds of fate and fortune and adventure never fail

In the isles beyond his farthest dreams where now his ever wandering soul may sail.

El Mocambo

This has to be one of the (if not THE) most iconic signs in the Toronto entertainment scene.

Last night, on the stage of El Mocambo I read some of my poetry to a fair-sized audience. The event contained several excellent musicians but I was the only poet reading their work.  I felt honoured to be invited to be part of that show. I also felt a little in awe to be performing on the same stage where previously had performed so many greats, including The Stones, Elvis (Presley and Costello), Sting, U2, Muddy Waters, Rush, Leonard Cohen, Stevie-Ray Vaughan, and many, many, MANY more.

Here I’m being introduced by the emcee before my set, which must have been OK as folks came over to me afterwards to tell me how much they enjoyed the poems, some to buy a book.  Some wanted more than one and one person wanted the set of all three. Some for themselves and some thought they’d make great gifts …. ‘Tiz the season after all.

While there I was invited to read at another venue in the New Year. I’ll post the details once I have them.

Thanks to all those who came and liked what they heard. I’m looking forward to more of the similar during 2015.

This epic sea poem is published in Book 2 of the Wanderings and Sojourns series “On Tropical Islands and Sparkling Seas” and posted here in serial form to celebrate the release of that book.   The book is available at the link below and from Amazon and all e-book formats as well as being available to order from almost every bookshop in the world.

 http://www.friesenpress.com/bookstore/title/119734000000426983/Jim-Scott-On-Tropical-Islands-and-Sparkling-Seas

Angus Donald and the Gale

Part Three (verses 21 – 30)

21

As Murdoch kept the boat on station, sheltered in the lee,

Young Angus scaled that dark foreboding height

Until he’d clambered clear of where the solid sheets of sea

Could drag him from its surface, out of sight.

He made it to the summit, had to brace against the squall

Where wind and spray and rain became as one,

And bent toward his task now knowing he must give his all

And praying too his strength would hold until this job was done.

22

He edged along the ridge to where the yacht was now aground

And being smashed by every pounding wave.

And borne upon the keening wind he heard the fearsome sound

Of screaming from the kids he’d come to save.

He reached the crag above the yacht, uncoiled the length of rope,

And lashed a heavy stone to give it weight.

And running then on nothing but adrenaline and hope

He lowered it down the precipice, but feared he was too late.

23

The father then appeared on deck and took the rope in hand

And looked to where young Angus stood his ground,

And what then passed between them neither man would understand;

He tried to speak but no words could be found.

He reached into the cabin and was passed his frightened son

And tied the rope about his waist and chest.

And told to him as well he could the work that must be done

And lifted him as best he might, and Angus did the rest.

24

He heaved that lad full twenty feet above the breaking sea,

Then coiled the rope and took his shaking hand,

And worked back to the overhang above the sheltered lee

Where Murdoch and his son knew what was planned.

As Angus lowered the youngster down the skipper neared the wall

Just when the biggest wave came boiling through.

And as the bow came up young Angus let the youngster fall

Into young Murdoch’s massive arms who caught him square and true.

25

No time was there to undo knots; the rope was swiftly slashed

As Murdoch quickly worked the boat away.

And Angus coiled the rope again as waves and thunder crashed,

And eyes were stung and blinded by the spray.

He clawed along the ridge once more toward the boat below

And saw the dad and daughter waiting there.

So lowered the rope and watched the father ready her to go.

Inside her life vest he could see a sodden teddy bear.

26

He hauled the child with all his strength and raised her from the wreck

But, seeing her too weak to walk at all,

He cradled her against his chest, her arms about his neck,

And bore her and her bear toward the wall.

He struggled through the storm-whipped rain ‘till Murdoch came to view.

He lowered her down to meet him through the spray.

His arms now throbbed, his back was strained, his will though still held true,

Determined not to fail the ones in desperate need that day.

27

On weary legs he bent to face the fury of the gale

As lightening flashed in sheets of blinding light;

Knowing well just one slip and that maelstrom would prevail

And he’d be swept below to endless night.

Again he reached the stricken craft.  Again he lowered the rope

To where the father lashed it to his wife.

He prayed she’d yet be strong enough to climb, for he’d no hope

Of hoisting her alone.  She’d have to help him save her life.

28

The father helped her reach the rock and pushed up from below

As pieces of the yacht were smashed apart.

While Angus hauled she raised one timid leg a foot or so

And found a ledge from which her climb could start.

Crashing waves tried rolling her along that jagged wall.

The shards tore at her flesh; her blood ran free.

But as each trough would pass young Angus braced himself to haul

Until at last she’d climbed above that unforgiving sea.

29

Exhausted there upon the peak she fell, her spirit gone,

Young Angus had no strength to bear her weight.

He left her sobbing helplessly and turned to carry on

Though dreading that he may now be too late.

The yacht was smashed and broken, slipping lower with each wave.

The husband knelt defeated on the deck.

But Angus was determined not to lose a man this brave

Who saw his family first ashore while he stayed with the wreck.

30

This time though when he lowered the rope the sea tore it away

Which cost him all the time he’d left in stock.

And as the wreck slipped quickly down beneath the sea and spray.

The father desperately leaped toward the rock.

Miraculously he landed and was able to hang on

As merciless the waves broke on his back.

Young Angus looked down solemnly, his hope now all but gone,

But still he’d not be beaten, so he planned one last attack.

This epic sea poem is published in Book 2 of the Wanderings and Sojourns series “On Tropical Islands and Sparkling Seas” and posted here in serial form to celebrate the release of that book. The book is available at the link below and from Amazon and all e-book formats as well as being available to order from almost every bookshop in the world.

 http://www.friesenpress.com/bookstore/title/119734000000426983/Jim-Scott-On-Tropical-Islands-and-Sparkling-Seas

 This epic sea poem is published in Book 2 of the Wanderings and Sojourns series “On Tropical Islands and Sparkling Seas” and posted here in serial form to celebrate the release of that book.  A new episode of this saga, each comprising 10 verses, will be posted here each day for the next 12 days. The book is available at the link below and will soon also be available from Amazon and all e-book formats as well as being available to order from almost every bookshop in the world.

 http://www.friesenpress.com/bookstore/title/119734000000426983/Jim-Scott-On-Tropical-Islands-and-Sparkling-Seas

Angus Donald and the Gale

Part ONE (verses 1 – 10)

1

They put the word out quickly, soon as they received the news

The family from The Bluff could use a hand.

And all responded to that call regardless of their views,

For such as this they well could understand.

The ones who were in trouble were quite recent to the town

And hadn’t mixed with many up ’til then.

They’d money and position; somehow always seemed to frown

Upon the way the townsfolk lived their lives as fishermen.

2

They’d bought some land atop the cliff and built themselves a place

Ten times the size of any others there.

They’d never joined in anything the locals would embrace

And hardly a “good morning” would they share.

They had this fancy sailing yacht kept tied up at a pier

Away from all the fishing boats and such.

Their dock was fenced and gated making sure none ventured near.

So what the townsfolk knew about it wasn’t very much.

3

But on that stormy Sunday when the call went round the street

It seemed that every townsman had stood to.

That’s how they were, those fisher-folk, to everyone they’d meet

Regardless how they lived or what they’d do.

The constable told all who came the facts they’d need to know

In order to determine how to plan,

And when he asked for volunteers to see which ones would go

Despite the fearsome weather heard an “Aye” from every man.

4

Fergus always lead the town’s response to such a call.

He’d captained ships on nigh on every sea.

And Murdoch, with his powerful son, who knew more than them all

Of every rock and eddy, tide and lee.

And Scanlon from The Lookout, and old Baird from Outer Brae,

MacLauchlan, Tavish, Anderson and Cloy.

They all were seasoned sailors you could count upon to stay

Who’d worked and loved and lived upon the waters, man and boy.

5

There too was Angus Donald from The Moorlands to the west;

He’d always been a different kind of lad.

Was far more academic and ambitious than the rest

Though still he’d learned the fishing from his dad.

He’d gone to university and earned there a degree

But never seemed to fit when he returned.

And yet he kept his heritage of working with the sea;

Not fishing though, researching stuff to do with what he’d learned.

6

Since his dad drowned he took the boat where others never went,

And there he’d dredge or net, or sift or dive.

He’d pass so close to reef and rock to further his intent

Some reckoned just his luck kept him alive.

And then he’d take his samples home; his creatures, shells and slime;

And test, dissect and measure them, and write.

So often as he worked he’d seem to lose all track of time

And be there working tirelessly at dawning’s breaking light.

7

Yet still, with all the fishermen, he’d volunteered when asked

To help the folks now stricken by the gale.

But Fergus thought he wasn’t up to what they’d all been tasked

And told him he’d prefer him not to sail.

The family from the cliffs had left their dock the day before

Unknowing of the forecast all had heard,

And when the storm had hit them they’d not made it back to shore.

They’d lost their mast and fouled their prop had been the latest word.

8

Then Murdoch up and said he’d like young Angus in his crew

In case they had to search in near the coast.

He reasoned Angus worked the inshore reefs no others knew

Through channels that were never used by most.

And so it was they put to sea, old Fergus at the head,

With fourteen weathered boats set close astern.

And all in that flotilla were of wind and ocean bred

Each set to fight the storm and praying all would yet return.

9

Old Fergus led them downwind from the last position known

And had them spread out left and right in line,

And spaced them at a cable’s length and set the target zone

Then turned against the pounding sea and brine.

The grim faced skippers held their course; their crews the waters scanned

In hopes to sight their mark amidst the spray.

But after twenty windward miles they swung toward the land

And ran the line downwind, this time in closer to the bay.

10

For thirty miles they searched before they turned that line again,

Which brought them even nearer to the shore.

They hardly saw each other through the driving sea and rain,

And nothing of the yacht they’d come there for.

But then they saw the flare go up close under Craggy Head.

Old Fergus left the line to check it out.

He’d figured early on the sailboat’s radio was dead

So he then launched a flare to show there’s rescue boats about.

 This epic sea poem is published in Book 2 of the Wanderings and Sojourns series “On Tropical Islands and Sparkling Seas” and posted here in serial form to celebrate the release of that book.  A new episode of this saga, each comprising 10 verses, will be posted here each day for the next 12 days. The book is available at the link below and will soon also be available from Amazon and all e-book formats as well as being available to order from almost every bookshop on the world.

 http://www.friesenpress.com/bookstore/title/119734000000426983/Jim-Scott-On-Tropical-Islands-and-Sparkling-Seas

Gibraltar Straits

Great gateway to Atlantis realm, your pillars stand as sentinels

To guard the final passage to that long lost mystic land.

Beyond world’s end toward the west it lay, archaic legend tells,

Where captains feared to ever test the dread those unsailed seas did then command.

Mythology had Hercules your channel forge through rock and earth

To open up the sea toward horizons never seen.

By severing the known domain you gave new dynasties their birth

Where now those cultures yet remain divided by your waters in between.

And did Phoenician galleys ply their trade between your facing shores,

And did you watch the Roman navy sail their legions forth?

And did you bear the conquering fleet of Africa’s invading Moors

And watch as every new defeat allowed their empire venture further north.

And was the ceaseless ebb and flow of power ‘tween Berber rivals played

For centuries around your coasts and on your restless tide?

And have, as Barbary pirates sailed on every reckless western raid,

Your fierce Levanter winds prevailed to set the course each corsair then would ride?

And did, as Europe’s empires grew their realms upon the fate of wars,

You hear the cannons thunderous roar above each blood-soaked fray.

And did you watch each savage fight that raged upon your seas and shores

To see the conqueror re-write the future path of history that day?

And did you see the quiet man who left your shores, some years now past,

To venture where his fate would have him endlessly to roam?

And did it ever cross your mind a time for him might come at last

When he’d recall those years behind and dream that one day he could find

The means by which to turn his helm to steer toward your ancient realm,

And bear him back to where he once called home.

For the sake of this blog entry, we join the story well over half way through and leave it well before it is ended. The omitted parts tell an incredible tale, but the section included here encapsulates the spirit of the whole story.  Anyone seriously involved with the world of sailing will know about whom this story is written for it is all true, and he is very well known and respected. My part in his story was, and still is, very small, but it was significant enough that when asked to write the cover blurb for the book from which this extract is taken, he had no hesitation to do so. He truly is one of the most inspiring characters I have ever met in my sixty-odd years on this planet.

The Impossible Dream

  ……… That was in 1984. The horribly injured lad was eighteen years old. The infinite possibilities that should have filled his youth had been cruelly stripped from him. Instead of enjoying life to the full, sailing luxury yachts in the Caribbean he was languishing in a hospital bed in the UK, paralysed from the neck down, his body and his dreams broken. His young life now forever changed. But although it became evident that his spinal cord was damaged beyond repair it also became just as evident that his dreams were not.

Close to a quarter of a century later a white-haired man, visiting from Canada, sat at a table in the sunny, open-plan restaurant of a hotel in the British Virgin Islands. He looked out across the sparkling sea to the harbour on the other side of the bay. With him was a family from England; mother, father and young son, also visiting the island. The two men were drinking a beer and talking about sailing. The mother and son were drinking juice.

After a while the mother said she and the lad were going to wander around town and do a bit of shopping leaving the two men to catch up with the goings on in each other’s lives since last they had met.

The older man didn’t have an awful lot to tell, other than he lived in Canada now and had been trying his hand at writing. But the younger man had many adventures, many incredible achievements to speak about. He did so modesty, almost reluctantly. He played down the comments of respect the older man made, but his unassuming manner could not mitigate the magnitude of the life he had lived. The older man knew some aspects of some of the stories already. He had followed them in the media. But he had not had the opportunity to hear them first hand until then.

Before responding to one of the questions, the younger man raised his beer to his lips, holding it awkwardly with misshapen hands and lifting his arm slowly, a little clumsily and with unusual effort. He stopped smiling just long enough to take a good gulp then lowered his beer with equal difficulty before manoeuvring his wheelchair a little to keep himself in the shade from the fierce tropical sun. Smiling broadly once more he continued the conversation.

The older, while hearing the younger’s words about personal accomplishments most could hardly imagine, studied that unstoppable and contagious smile that seldom left the other’s eyes, projecting a constant air of optimism, positive energy, strength. That smile transported the white-haired man back across a quarter century to a bloodstained hospital bed not many miles to the west of where they now sat. A frightened and confused teenager, badly hurt and in abject pain, stranded in a foreign land was looking up at him. Despite the intensity of the emotional and physical trauma that lad had suffered, the shock, the fear and uncertainty, he was smiling.

The inner light his smile was releasing with such vigour in that restaurant in Tortola was the same as that which had penetrated the darkness and despair all those years ago. He now realised that what he’d witnessed back then was not as he’d thought: a brave endeavour to pretend all was not as grim as it was. It had been the kindling of the potent glow that emanates from an indomitable spirit determined to overcome, no matter how bad the odds may be.

Listening to the stories and recognising that he needed to focus on what was not being told as much as what was, the older man realised how incredibly difficult the journey had been after arriving in England. How long and tormented was the road that had been travelled to rebuild that shattered young life. And just how incredible had been the heights to which that life had been rebuilt.

The irony of that success was that it was largely the very same passions that had caused him to be at Cane Garden Bay on the tragic day of the accident that provided the stimulus that maintained his determination to demolish what for many would have been the insurmountable barriers life had thrown across his path.

 His love of sailing. His love of the sea. His love of adventure.

Not only was he to sail again, he, a quadriplegic, would sail the open seas single-handed. They were small trips at first, in estuaries and staying close inshore. But he would steadily progress until, single-handed, he sailed round the Isle of Wight. He would start to race and eventually, single-handed, would represent his country abroad, as far away as Australia, and return home a medal winner. Twenty-three years after his accident he would embark upon a colossal personal challenge, his personal Everest he called it, and successfully circumnavigate Great Britain ….. single-handed ….. quadriplegic. And while doing so he would dream of sailing single handed across the Atlantic. But as any barnacle encrusted sailor will tell you, such a voyage is just plain impossible for anyone with such disability.

But what he didn’t speak about as they reminisced were the countless numbers of disadvantaged people that had been inspired by his incredible example and helped by the leadership he provided in the field of realising your dreams despite those disadvantages; the lives he changed for the better by not only showing people what could be done, but by establishing the means and encouraging the organisations that allowed them to do so. He had worked with charities and founded others geared toward the disabled and their involvement in sport, especially sailing. He had become an ambassador in that field and for all his work had been honoured many times from many organisations.

From his wheelchair he was accomplishing so much more than most people with no disadvantages would ever think of even attempting.

 Needless to say he had also built a loyal supportive network that had only been too happy to throw their weight behind his initiatives and share some of his dreams in which they too became caught up. This was yet another testament to the depth and breadth of characterand leadership he possessed and the contagious energy he generated. And there was little question in the white haired man’s mind that the greatest of all the supporters who would have facilitated so much of what it took to achieve all that had been accomplished, would have been his wife. But there again, thought the elder man, to have such a wonderful woman so willing to stand by his side during all he had been through was in itself a citation.

 In 2009, a boat named “Impossible Dream” sailed into Cane Garden Bay. It anchored just a little further out from the spot where that eighteen-year-old lad broke his neck ……..

Man has lost the capacity to foresee and foretell. He will end by destroying the earth.               ….. Albert Schweitzer

Am I Quixote? 

I read from Don Cervantes of a simple aging soul

Who dared to hold a vision unto which he might stay true.

He rode, though much derided, to fulfil his noble goal

To challenge every tyrant while defending those oppressed

and mend this world before his life was through.

My lance tilts so at corporate greed and politician’s lies

That stride across the landscape of the world where I must live.

These windmills that I’m charging and would strive for their demise

Are giants that destroy the earth to take all they might take

with never thought to what they yet might give.

Too few the corporations now where selflessness is seen

Too great the selfish influences poured upon our youth.

While governments and bureaucrats and all those in between

Just tell us what serves their agendas, feeds their own desires,

instead of telling us the honest truth.

It seems their goals are not providing us with that we need

But that for which their balance sheets would rather we should buy.

Or that which earns them votes from satisfying wanton greed

With scarce a thought to what will happen once the land is bled

and waterways and oceans left to die.

The air’s now rank with toxic fume. The sea with plastic filled.

The rivers flow with fertilizers spread on barren lands.

The lakes are turned to tailing ponds. The forests all but killed.

While industry churns ever onward multiplying its guilt

yet showing us its bleached and sterile hands.

Too few are we who stand to challenge; muted yet our voice

That’s smothered by these tyrants’ falsehoods, drowned by those in power.

Too ignorant the ones oppressed, not knowing of the choice

They need to make to save tomorrow, save our future’s hope

that fades within my vision by the hour.

But who am I to ride against these giant flailing mills

That vandalize my world with no containment or concern?

And who am I to match my mind ‘gainst governmental wills?

An errant knight in rusted armour ‘pon a scrawny horse

that few would miss should never he return?

So should I put away this armour, shed this lance and shield

And wait, like all the others, ‘til the sun dies in the west?

Or should I charge and charge again with all that I can wield

To fight these corporate monsters so to honour what I see

as such a crucial, such a noble quest?

So I at least can say I tried to mend the world before I died,

and didn’t acquiesce like all the rest.