Prophets Of Profit Poem by Eric Cockrell

in the shadows
beneath the trees,
the men with the long

knives wait;
call them unholy, call them
prophets, men of vision,

men of change...
soldiers of the grey kingdom,
where nothing is revealed.

every starving child,
every bomb dropped
on indiscriminate huts...

every girl baby aborted,
every young boy sent to prison
for his education...

every young girl bought
for an hour, used like a rag,
and tossed aside....

for miles and miles of oceans
poisoned by oil....
for the homeless man

beaten to death by the deputy....
the migrant family terrorized,
the young gay boy found hanging....

the men with the long knives wait...
choosing who will live and die,
who is useful, and who is not...

the judges chosen by
the oil drenched hand....
the prophets of profit!