Hidden Weapons Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

I heard about the cheers,
onlookers chosen by
the kindly executioners,
who took great pleasure
in ripping off the head
of that big monster,
fed and raised by Uncle Sam.
He'd suffered from a plague,
a brief attack that changed
his endocrine endowment fund,
testosterone ran wild, its foam
engulfing all gray matter and
defiance reared its bearded head
to wander off into the world of dunes
where kingdoms can be built of sand.
With terror only visible inside
his cruel eyes, there was an air
of simple bravery, the shackles held
and fear was smelled by all,
the fear of predator and prey.
The family went mad, the uncle said
we must now bleed the bastards dry,
take on the valiant task of altruism,
to keep the people safe and well,
so all the rellies gathered with their charts,
long lists of weapons to be used,
at last, it was the stuff that builds
and nurtures an economy, a must
for a regime that sees itself as having been
appointed by the Gods to lead,
and to impose its generosity upon the world,
its goodness and a system fit for those
who would be welcomed in the fold,
whose contributions would be seen by all
to be the currency's democracy and peace,
it would be known henceforth to peasants and
to kings and Gods and devils all the same,
the great essence, also known as the Good Oil.