Colin F. Jones
It is the bigot who would call me a buffoon,
Creating a maelstrom in a stranger’s room,
For not complying with the prejudice thought,
Engraved upon his mind where it was wrought.
Having not succeeded in such trite transport,
Such as he is, predictably, seeks support,
By casting aspersions with a wider view,
To hire more stone throwers for his struggling crew.
Yet even while the tempest whirls and roars,
We still hear the hopeless straining of the oars,
And when the wind and hollow thunder dies,
There are the fading echoes of their cries,
For all in all like all prejudice when it’s done,
It retains only that which never can be won.
©Copyright July 1, 2005 by Colin F. Jones