But t'was nothing to me, I don't farm.
That they next robbed the craftsmen and workers?
To me, was no cause for alarm.
When after they came for the fishermen,
T'was the same old story, you see.
As I don't ply waters for riches,
I only fish sport by the sea.
Soon after they came for the environment,
But here too, I made not a peep.
For am I to be an extremist,
When t'is safer the silence of sheep?
After which, came they for the markets,
And with it, our housing, our jobs.
Which we learned were all sent to China,
While our cheeks ran runny with sobs.
T'was then (much too late) I to Washington made,
With a hat, and waiving I sign.
On a bus owned by my captors,
I was driven in comfort sublime.
Through all of it I remained trapped,
encased in my fear and my dread,
of being seen as alarmist?
I'd sooner be thought of as dead.
And as they took the courts and the judges,
We were blithely given our due.
There wasn't a word of protest,
Nor even the right to sue.
Now t'is slavery all that I am left with,
My chains and my bowl by my side.
This I leave to my namesake,
With barely enough to survive.
By David Anthony Kearns