Dirt Bags

You hear the TV brutes spit out "dirt bags"

As they blow away some human "fags".

It sounds all brave, and glorious and macho

When heads fly off and blood squirts everywhere.

And maybe that term is ultimately fair

When they stick us in the ground, by then

We have become essentially "dirt bags."

 

I don't understand the attraction.

Of bodies slamming together in violent compaction.

What is the attraction to pain, and hurt and fear,

Of those in comfortable chair sitting in the rear?

Reality is these things are thuggish, brutal terror

And while still alive the term dirt bag is usually in error

The TV brutes may fill fantasies of Cowboy Bob

For folks in front of a TV fat like blobs

But they can't look their murder victims in the eye

Until just before they die.

I don't get the need for this porn.

 

Think about the definition of terror and then,

Wonder who is being the terrorist, and when.

Is it the brute with a bomb-belt under his suite

Or is it also the one with a joystick in his hand,

Blowing up wedding parties full of "dirt bags?"

The definition of purpose of shock and awe is terrorism.

Whatever BS reason they give as their "ism"

The value of wars and blows and body bags, is fear.

And the first step to stopping this dear friends,

Is to recognize those "dirt bags" could be people we love.

And we dirt bags should be better than this.

Christopher H. Holte

When they stick us in the ground. Even if we are in a box instead of a bag we are essentially "dirt bags."