March 2005 / Volume VI / Issue II
Nathan Roberts

Year gone and the fevers still come
I find self lost in memories
and you downplay the trauma,
    thinking your pain cannot be as great
    as generations in other times
1000 y stare
No cheering masses hailed you hero
   No procession in Rome for the conquerors returned
      And gold filled tribute coffers
      And captive slave states
   Inspire no gratitude in plebes
Even the hawks clamoring for war forget you exist
and the protests are against you

Do you sit and wonder if you should have
   burned your draft card (no draft card you chose this you ass)
   fled to canada
   grew your hair long smoked pot and
   littered the white house lawn w picket signs

Will we be spit on by long hairs that call us baby killers
It can't hurt more than spitting on ourselves
Were we betrayed by
    a slick texas con artist in a good ol' boy government?
    by the mindless masses screaming for gladiator blood?
       in a media coliseum
       with fear fueled rage
    or by ourselves?