Bad Poetry: Survive for Spite

Sometimes surviving is the best revenge,

especially when murder's been attempted.

I'll live to dance on your grave you have vowed

when homicide in self-defense has tempted.

Even when he's been led off in prison orange

while everyone hands you the martyr's crown

and you try to look modest, feeling proud,

with hands flat at your sides, with eyes turned down,

justice has not been done. Nor will it be.

Others had died before the fool met you.

If only they could join the dance, to see

young convicts line up, beat him black and blue,

justice might seem to sprout up like the tree

whose trunk he cut, and sprayed with poison, too.

This topic is too close to real life to provide much fun, actually, but I do thank the Poets & Storytellers United for proposing it. For the gruesome details, see the past six months of this blog. For the denouement, wait another year. 

Celiacs of the world, hang tough, and pray that Secretary Kennedy will be guided to hand us Bayer and Chemchina, on a silver platter, as neatly as he handed old Granola Greens the bans on food additives they've wanted since 1972.