They bowed their heads and prayed to their god. And he was made of garbage and oil, lies and ignorance, bombs and bullets, suffering and decay.

This god above all others was called America.

Then the sky split open, and America's angels rained down upon the unwanted, the weak, and killed them all with guns they called peace.

The people rejoiced and danced upon the hills of corpses. They ate the flesh of the dead and called it justice.

Lucifer looked upon the carnage and wept. And as he watched the horror, he held Lilith close and asked "why must they worship such evil?" Lilith replied "they fear difference."

I wrote this poem for fun (and because I hate the current state of america) I would love some constructive criticism

From The Oxford Book of English Verse

~~Sorry the poem is in the link (Structure and Verses section), I gave up trying to copy+paste+format and lemmy wouldn't accept my screenshot.~~
Edit: Im back on PC and found a copy that I can post:

Tom o' Bedlam's Song

by Anonymous

From the hag and hungry goblin
That into rags would rend ye,
The spirit that stands by the naked man
In the Book of Moons defend ye,
That of your five sound senses
You never be forsaken,
Nor wander from yourselves with Tom
Abroad to beg your bacon,
While I do sing, Any food, any feeding,
Feeding, drink, or clothing;
Come dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

Of thirty bare years have I
Twice twenty been enraged,
And of forty been three times fifteen
In durance soundly caged
On the lordly lofts of Bedlam
With stubble soft and dainty,
Brave bracelets strong, sweet whips ding dong
With wholesome hunger plenty,
While I do sing, Any food, any feeding,
Feeding, drink, or clothing;
Come dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

With a thought I took for Maudlin
And a cruse of cockle pottage,
With a thing thus tall, sky bless you all,
I befell into this dotage.
I slept not since the Conquest,
Till then I never waked,
Till the roguish boy of love where I lay
Me found and strip't me naked.
While I do sing, Any food, any feeding,
Feeding, drink, or clothing;
Come dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

When I short have shorn my sow's face
And swigg'd my horny barrel,
In an oaken inn I pound my skin
As a suit of gilt apparel;
The moon's my constant mistress
And the lovely owl my marrow;
The flaming drake and the night crow make
Me music to my sorrow.
While I do sing, Any food, any feeding,
Feeding, drink, or clothing;
Come dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

The palsy plagues my pulses
When I prig your pigs or pullen,
Your culvers take, or matchless make
Your Chanticleer or Sullen.
When I want provant with Humphrey
I sup, and when benighted,
I repose in Paul's with waking souls
Yet never am affrighted.
But I do sing, Any food, any feeding,
Feeding, drink, or clothing;
Come dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

I know more than Apollo,
For oft when he lies sleeping
I see the stars at bloody wars
In the wounded welkin weeping;
The moon embrace her shepherd,
And the Queen of Love her warrior,
While the first doth horn the star of morn,
And the next the heavenly Farrier.
While I do sing, Any food, any feeding,
Feeding, drink, or clothing;
Come dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

The gypsies, Snap and Pedro,
Are none of Tom's comradoes,
The punk I scorn and the cutpurse sworn,
And the roaring boy's bravadoes.
The meek, the white, the gentle
Me handle, touch, and spare not;
But those that cross Tom Rynosseross
Do what the panther dare not.
Although I do sing, Any food, any feeding,
Feeding, drink, or clothing;
Come dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

With an host of furious fancies
Whereof I am commander,
With a burning spear and a horse of air,
To the wilderness I wander.

By a knight of ghosts and shadows
I summon'd am to a tourney
Ten leagues beyond the wide world's end:
Methinks it is no journey.
Yet will I sing, Any food, any feeding,
Feeding, drink, or clothing;
Come dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

cold morning in april
and fading fast:
the shape of her,
half sharp, half real,
enough for now,
make it enough,
make it last one more minute,
just one more minute,
stop, just stop,
wait,
just another shared breath,
just one more whole life behind closed eyes,
i see the garden,
the green death, the blood bricks,
you speak a solemn spell,
the knotweed trembles,
the pines cry,
i wish you’re real again,
not a collection of days,
not a name carved,
not a tree in a deaf forest falling,
just to hear you,
what i wouldn't kill and bury and kill again,
but i break apart at the thought of a tear,
and the days gotta roll by,
and the train never takes a break,
station to station to station to black,
and i need you back,
i hear and smell and see and feel and love above all things real: a shimmer of a shadow,
but there you are,
the mind cradling
the heart it seems,
and if it was not of you, i’d dream of a dreamless death

Yes I know it’s a shitty poem I haven’t written one since middle school. Just felt I needed a way to express myself and to post it somewhere and forget about it. No I’m not going to kill myself. This is about me getting a lifelong incurable chronic illness (ME) from a COVID infection. I’m bedridden, unable to talk, tubefed, unable to process noise, and just pretty much dead. Not looking for feedback.