The Craven

By M. Jane Letty

Once upon a mid-term clearly, we found our branches squandered; per dominion’s query,

Over the lunar new year, exploit our greatest threat: pestilence and death…the (al)lure—

    While the softened masses surrendered, we warned this was the trapping, the trapping…

For this was the threshold they were crossing, their weight would send our freedoms crashing through the floor.

“They’re lying,” we cried out, “there will be no ceiling, there will be no floor—

               They had it all pre-planned, at least a term or two or more before.”

Ah, how freely they would take asunder, a loophole in the parchment of November;

And bleeding ink flows to the fraction-magic tally; contented media ever the host-narrative whore.

   Greedily they plundered the new tomorrow;—savaged the rich same as but only after the poor

   From a “crook in every pot” back-slapping to sighs of relief over success at the system they have gamed—

For now, they will stifle and bait the benevolent, with no consequence and no cure—

Scoundrels and sycophants, rotten to their icy-cold, malevolent core.

And the milking of our resources, they turn to hustling our borders and beyond our purple mountain majesties

Killed integrity—with the falsehood of their idolatry to climate change folklore

    So that now, to kill by the stopping of hearts they’re profiteering

    “’Tis threating to visit, encroaching upon the Fourth, trespassers at the door—

Some won’t speak English, others to encroach upon the Fourth, to bait us into a civil war;—

            That is their goal, liken us as ignorant or the enemy, to be sure.”

Predictably, the nation’s captive soul grew darker; ever-persistent fear mongers,

““Liberty is dying,” we cried out, “there will be no past and no future, there will be no more—”

               Yet now we see their spring-loaded trapping—the lockdowns, riots, virus for electoral mapping.

   And pseudo-saintly, they only take; for no good crisis goes to waste, the cowards dare.

They debase and destroy faith and hope, snarling like spoiled children “It’s only fair!”;—

               They’re all in this together—not we—then audaciously demand from us to care.

Creep into their madness, but not for too-too long, not a reason found worth hearing;

Shouting, scheming schemes no decent human being would ever bring all this to the fore.

   But their gnashing teeth were broken, as they burn, loot, and murder—the evil beast awoken,

   And their violence was misspoken, we all know what we saw—their savagery, hate, and gratuitous gore.

Without the cooperation of goodwill’s intent, there would be no audience unless forced inside to endure—

               Still, this was not enough, “Please, stop! You’re taking this too far!” we did implore.

  Being careful now while nestled in the chamber, as the pendulum suspended, and the long hand still turning,

Tune out the noise of their carnival clapping, bootlickers back-slapping, and the media whores;

    “History,” thunders from the halls, “repeats itself, to punish the Godless idols of arrogance and avarice.

    Let those who can still see, what little mercy left untorn, and give it with pure grace—

Let those who’ve seen enough, be just and steady in their skill and iron sights, to rid the world of this ungodly face;—

               “‘Tis what the wrath is for, nothing less and nothing more!”

Opining upon what will be recorded, the heavens hear our cries, as we sift amid the ruins and the clutter

In the final chapter, clearly states the full-court press twenty, judgment comes for the wicked as it does the pure;

     Rot the beast one-thousand years, and then a brief reprieve; no repentance, only chicanery.

     But the wisdom to bless us with one-million guardians can only mean we are infinitely many more—

Searched among our broken hearts, some forgive according to God’s love and grace of our Lord—

               Searched among the fragments of the broken spirits, some let go, could not afford.

There are not as many of them as they would have us all believe. The capture of your attention is what’s beguiling.

Byproducts, the naïve and misguided few by those who know Death will soon be wrapping at their door,

“Sown they reap their corrupted youth; reap they’ve sown of wretched dreams,” they wail, “no soul to take,

Ghosted lies and ballot-boxed havens they’ll soon die, but leave protégés behind in their wake—

Legacies of shame and greed and pride; exposed their lies, they’ll have power no more!”

               To crush The Craven: “Give them nothing, nothing more.”

Much was freely given to these sanctimonious, unctuous foes to fear them was their only protection,

Though time they run counter to, their evil deeds against the clock;

    For we cannot forgive, nor ever forget their betrayal to mankind and mocking of the One all-seeing

    The bell that tolls for thee, the charge will always be for treason—

Seals and spirits were broken, no matter how they spin the lies or spew their awful reason

Call them by their real name: The Craven, and “Give them nothing, nothing more.”

But The Craven, hail not only from the Swamp you see. At first blush, they appear no different from you or me.

The ones we once considered neighbors, even family or friends, turned foes. That one sure sign we’d missed before.

      Something rather strange and truly quite peculiar—inside the weapon used to order us to Shutter—

      Mill the stones mined from the same quarry as the pestle and the mortar—

On the sorrow and the rage that dangles from the throats of not one, but all—the staffer to the donor.

               For God and country, do this instead: “Give them nothing…nothing more!”

Bristled at the grandiloquence of clowns in power, merely token,

“Absurdity,” said I, “what they utter is to only mock and break us at the core

Bought by the maestro, demanding praise like that of the oil from the box of alabaster

Swallowed fast and hollowed faster till his words mean nothing more

Till the ridges of the rope from which no one (yet) hangs, necks over shoulders forever sore

               Of ‘Give them nothing, nothing more’.”

But the Craven still watering the grass to feed their sheep, time still whiling

Hatemongers protecting their tufted asses imprison modern-day Sons of Liberty, a narrative to whore

When upon their chains, they’re linking, I saw it for myself—you see it, too—they’re shrinking

Heresy unto heresy, kinking the rule of God is what they fiercely adore—

Breaking husbands and sons from the inside out, may God have mercy beyond this door

               One by one, paid in the blood of patriots and traitors, “Give them nothing, nothing more.”

Like my brethren, I sat here, stunned at the stripping away of rights so swiftly, sensing

Too many howling not in disgust, rather in fear at letter-jacketed goons busting down their door;

 This was war in The Shining, with our heads in our hands, our nation’s might declining

Upon the “Monarch’s” velvet lining, the pattern’s been exposed ‘neath the Lamp of Liberty, closed to the public

Black Tom, who’s to say, wasn’t their first glimpse of a controlled opposition gimmick?

               Both sides we were born of the same US-minted coin—we give and give; they take and give away. “Give them nothing, nothing more!”

Obedience was the first true surrender, and they smiled as they mocked us, while the media will censor

To silence the thunderous hooves of the pale horse: four. Pissing on our legs and telling us it’s raining!

“Resist,” we cried, but by then it was too late—and there is even more to come: the other horses three

Despite—despite no science, Nepenthe-laced jabs for the new slaves; PlumpJack wine for the new masters.

Imbibing on the taunt of emergency powers, they hoped we’d cave or die faster!

               Quoth the Craven “We’re all in this together.”

“Ghouls!” said I, “soulless and greedy!—ghouls still, shock troop-enchanted!—

Whether Trump Derangement Syndrome-hellbent, or temperament of a global elitist whore,

Desecrated all, gleefully, on the homeland, oath of office recanted—

On this, land of the free, home of the brave, to make yourselves rich and We The People poor—

Is there—is there no lie you won’t tell?—tell me, tell me, what more misery have you for us in store!”

               Quoth the Craven “You will own nothing and you will be happy.”

I tell you this, Heaven above hears our cries—the Hell below awaits you more—

For what you’ve done to the vulnerable and kind, those of us who’ve kept our powder dry

Will clutch and grasp upon your soul long after your last wretched breath and your legacy will die—

Marxists may dare and defiant fools whom the rage still fires within we will tame or court-try.

               Quoth the Craven: “Our own pampered black-blooded spawn, lackeys and sheep, we leave in our wake.”

“Be that as it may, the new Sons and Daughters of Liberty we leave, too!” I retorted, undaunted—

“Let no man put asunder what God has enjoined”, (Mark 10:9) is of no consequence, then?

Yoked to indifference we are, now, by a denied atonement hath bronzed our righteous indignation!

Once mere fools and lenders of benefit of doubt, to be civil, tame, and sedate

Take thy knife from our nation’s back, and take thy Communist boot from off our throat!”

               Quoth the Craven: “We were promised our turn, so we just evened up the score.”

And the Craven, ill-fitting, still is smirking, still is shirking

On the squalid Capitol Hill, spineless Senate, illegitimate Executive Branch

Oh! The eyes that see, never again blind…clenching teeth by natural law, silent and lurking,

Oh! After the reckoning and the stench to follow from the gasses and the oozing tranche;

And my country, my beautiful home, restored once again, her glory, grace, and might!

               Shall be freed from the teeth of this duplicitous, power-hungry whore—

In this, the victor we will be, America’s Ideologic War!