The Little Men Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

This mentality, simply the reality,
of our own personal principals;
whose nationality, worn by brutality,
forged from personalities borne;
into this fulminating propagation.

Forged from 10,000 generations,
blood, sweat, tears, and so much death;
repression's sins, tastes sweet to those,
who care not of the little men's toes;
thereto which witch, watches whose nose?

The little men, poison dwarfs or kings,
inaudible frequency, freed fancies or freaks;
fleas, or flies, or minced meat of many yenchs,
some succubae, sent from god fearing tweaks;
bitterness left untouched, ‘their' pique, life's treats.

Foreign this concept, of whispered thoughts,
enhancing minds and moving mouths;
beings doing much, never to accomplish,
enough of anything comparable to one's worth's;
handily ply favour, within idle minds dark wishes.

Embody any rabble-rouser's raucous pledges,
men who assail the illogical, unfathomable, indefinite;
all means, less than nothing, in the schema of minds,
the venality thrice plied, that bellows brightest;
for reasons commended, to the palace of plausibility.

Aah, the slaughter of more imaginings,
only ashes remain, the din of half-hearted men;
who do as they are told, even when it costs,
a life, a limb, or absolute destruction of their kin;
swoon over the simplicities, afforded by great fortune.

Massed ideas, swallow whole, and then assimilate their fortitude,
and this for the greater good, for all of humankind;
is this a lie, or a truth that is worth your life,
whispering little men, know better well this is truth;
believe what was told before, this yet beckons all.

Broken song, this lowly dirge a dissonance perfumed,
by one since freed, by consciousness of conscience.