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killers of the Dream
Hooded fear rides in the night, Through our town’s silent streets; And down along the river, Through bright leaf fields, Darkened in the fiery light.
Leaving the cypress swamps and bays, The highway past the farmhouse runs, To the urban factory halls, The office house billboards; And through the air the secret rays.
Our murdered captain from the grave Of that mendacious day yet speaks; A cult of Roman swords, Leviathan, a U-2 flight, The unofficiated bannerettes that rave.
The killers of the dream are they, Suited in gray from secret phones, Dialing numbers of death, Calling up missiles and missives, At Bixby’s house this time to stay.
Topping the columns, no fallen year, We celebrate with cigarettes and drinks, That liberty is held more dear, And ourselves congratulate, Glad that it is not we, Who are the agents of fear.
—John L. Godwin |
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