An old building, a cracked sidewalk
On a dusty small-town street
The sun shining
Promising one more day of heat
Just the right scent
Brings memories to the fore
And I’m young again
Remembering days of yore
When wizened old men spoke to me
Of tyranny, lies and theft
From leaders and tycoons
With hearts bereft
These unshaven old men
With patches on their jeans
Had a message to spread
But not the means
“Bankers run the world
They’re making you a slave
You must stand up to them
Your liberty is not safe”
With gentle schooled tolerance
I listened then walked away.
I suddenly break from my trip through time
A group of youngsters walking my way
My mind whirls and
I don’t know what to say
How do I tell them
The danger they are in
How do I tell them
Our masters practice all the sins
How do I tell them
They’ll not survive
Because they won’t have the means
As I walk toward them
Unshaven in my patchwork jeans.