The Price Of It - Poem by Herbert Nehrlich
There was a mean, pathetic man,
much substance he had not.
He only counted one true fan
but that prevented not
his mad attacks on those who can
create true poetry.
I think he might just be deranged,
how else could one explain
the frequent trouble he arranged
as if he were insane?
As time went by the people saw
what really was behind him,
that was the trigger for the raw
sheer hatred that did blind him.
He stood in a great market place
where thousands were assembled
and showed his venom-spitting face
so that the masses trembled.
And then he urged his enemy
to find an airtight room
and douse himself with Zyklon B
and there await his doom.
Our times aren't what they used to be,
some poeple know no rules.
These low lives do not seem to see
that even blatant fools
have to account for what they say,
and this fool made an error,
it isn't ever quite okay
to dabble in sheer terror.
The crack of dawn had just begun,
a car pulled up. The Mail? ? ?
Oh no, it was a man with gun,
the fool went off to jail.
Comments about The Price Of It by Herbert Nehrlich
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You