We went to Nam as kids – the Rogue and Colin Jones.
As contrary old farts we discern the bloody bones
Of outrageous foreign policy both then and now
Rather than milk it they prefer to shoot the cow
On spiritual matters you and I are incredulous
That religion gives sanctuary to a man’s prejudice
Your poesy cuts through the mirrors and smoke
And tells us the truth with more than a little poke
Bugger the sweet words of the pathetic sycophant
Your crusty discernment is ever my style of cant.
My ancient body is falling apart, old mate
When you leave don’t forget – shut the gate.
©Copyright July 8, 2011 by Roger Liebmann
This poem is a response to “Rogue” - ©Copyright July 8, 2011 by Colin F. Jones