Where Will The Children Go Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

When bombs of hate explode
and bits of bodies fly
in one more episode
of hatred, some will cry.

But others sit up high
and speak with forked tongue
they keep their powder dry
watch commoners be hung.

The poet said it best
who did observe the preachers
who dream of being blessed
and function as our teachers.

He said that they drink wine
from crystal in the shade
then sway but rise and shine
to speak pure lemonade.

As Goethe said so clearly
where wine goes in the snout
no matter if we dearly
just hope, what does come out

is strange and lacks conviction
as thoughts are scrambled now
this pitiful addiction
is common and shows how

old Heine spoke of water
that's given in return
by those whose only daughter
is seldom of concern

lest people miss the essence
the booze is not to blame
it is an obvious presence,
the drunkenness of shame.

It's power from the masses
extracted by deceiving
by egomaniac asses
while we can do the grieving.

When all the ropes are torn
and only blank spots show
a new age will be born,
where will the children go?