Lyric Poet

Poetry by Brent Futo

Copyright Brent Futo 1980-2001.

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"Children of the Plague"

Children of the Plague

We are the Christians on whose flesh
Savage beasts and and raging fiends grew fat and strong.
We are the witches, bound and burned,
Sacrificed for sheer contempt of our beliefs--
Hear our song.

We are the Hebrew living dead.
Efforts to erase our race have left this scar.
We are the negros, antiheros,
Hated not for what we've done; but rather for
Who we are.

We are the children of the plague--
As our fallen friends before, we know not why
We have been chosen, coldly frozen
In this age of icy scorn, without a trial;
Thus, we die.

Yet, we all wonder of what man
Comes this curse (or even worse), is it of God?
Some say it's justice, punishment
For evils rent outside the norm of holy form--
Spare that rod!

We are forgiven, if we've sinned.
If we've not, you've falsely blamed and hated us,
Without understanding we are simply
True unto the seeds that grew from God who has
Created us.

"City Schizos"

City Schizos

Whenever I go downtown
I'm forced to read between the lines
The words conceived of painful print
And typeset on the human signs.

The resignation etched in dirt,
And smeared upon the wisened faces,
Evolves from years of silent hurt
And never softens or erases.

And sometimes they return my stare
And wrap it in a grave mistrust,
So used are they to lack of care
They think it born of my disgust.

If only I could scale their fence,
In words or deeds or dreams prophetic,
And let them them know their deviance
Is not by choice, it's just genetic.

And let them know in subtle ways
My stare is born instead of pain,
For all the drizzly nights and days
I've seen them sleeping in the rain.

And most of all, this is my fear,
That other ears will never hear,
And other eyes will never read
The words between the lines I see.

I guess a rain-drenched schizophrenic
Is not a subject photogenic,
And those who pass by city schizos
Would simply rather just forget those.

"The Walkers"

The Walkers

They comb the streets when morning breaks
With pre-determined, searching strides.
Far past the point of pain and aches,
The walkers never ask for rides.

A crumpled bag and cola can
Take on recycled gut appeals.
Existing on the wastes of man,
The walkers never ask for meals.

A wallet tossed along the way,
A photo of a love long gone,
Is found and brightens up the day
Of one to whom it now belongs
(A walker never finds true love--
He's done without it all along).

And what would happen if in stride
A walker stepped beyond his place
And asked a driver for a ride,
Or maybe for a warm embrace?
(I doubt that any cars would stop--
And if they did, they'd offer mace).

"Red Light"

Red Light

I noticed him there on the corner.
I kind of laughed to myself and facetiously smiled--
Those tremendously clumsy combat boots,
And that hair so abundantly wild!
It was rather apparent,
Though he'd the face of a man,
He'd been cursed with the mind of a child.

I studied him there on the corner.
I kind of watched silently as he frantically tried
To cross that incredibly hostile street
With those cars so abundantly wild!
It was rather apparent,
In his face full of fear,
He was cornered with no place to hide.

I noticed her car just behind mine.
I kind of glanced in the mirror as she obtusely raced
To touch-up her lipstick and blush
With hands so abundantly laced!
It was rather apparent,
Though the fool was so blatant,
She'd have motored him down in her haste.

I wondered if I should have helped him,
As the light turned to green and she sat on her horn,
And I left him behind for the next car to find,
If not physically, mentally torn.
It was rather apparent,
Though I hate to admit it,
He got nothing from me but my scorn.

Now sometimes I find myself wondering
If he made it across or was hit by a van.
The years dissappear but do not erase
Such a face so disgustingly bland.
And it's rather apparent,
It's far worse to ignore him,
Than abhore him and and give him a hand.

"Philanthropist's Prayer"


Praise God for every deprivation
Afflicting every third world nation.
And thank you Lord for every war
We package food and clothing for.

Send down an acid rain of hunger
To etch the throats of young and younger.
May mothers wrench their brittle nipples
In infant corpses' mouths of dribble!

Let quakes and floods flow ever faster
(Or any other grand disaster),
So we can hear that "thousands suffer"
And then "provide that needed buffer".

We'll organize a telethon,
Or gayly put a concert on,
Or cater festive black-tie feasts
To stamp out all those "nasty beasts".

Perhaps if some hag wills her ring,
They'll plaque her name on some new wing--
A ward for sickly crippled orphans,
With fashion shows to buy new bedpans!

Thank God that misery's in fashion.
How else could we show such compassion?


Apartment 19-A

There was a rather funny fellow
In 19-A--
Soft-spoken, kind, and gentle,
In a funny sort of way.
He rarely ventured far beyond
His tiny rented yard,
Where day and night he dug and scratched
And turned his lot so hard.

There was a rather different fellow
In 19-A.
His neighbors kind of wondered,
As they passed him on the way,
Why any fool would soil his hands,
And work them to the bone,
To glorify a property
He didn't even own.

There was a rather sudden death
In 19-A.
The neighbors kind of wondered,
In a sheepish sort of way,
How any one could keep his peace,
Alone and deathly ill,
Content to soak and plant the seeds
He knew he'd never till.

There is a rather humbled man
In 18-B--
A former judge and juror
Who failed him miserably--
A man who prays to prune the vines
That life in sin has grown,
To glorify a property
He'll never really own.

"Protest This"

Hollywood Fools

"Murderers, murderers, peace not war!"
Do you assholes know what you're asking for?
"Baby-killers, baby-killers, fascist pigs!"
Here you go again with your protest gigs.
Hollywood hollow-heads think they know,
How we all should live, if it were their show.
Evil will desist, torture will stand down,
If they win an Oscar out in Tinseltown.
Shut your mouths, shut your face, piss and moan.
Do you know who bought, everything you own?
Lifestyles have a price, freedom isn't free:
Viewers bled and died for your protest speech.
Hollywood, protestors, kiss my ass!
I hope you pay ten bucks for a pint of gas!
Michael Moore and Sheryl Crowe have no clue.
Dixie Chicks, Martin Sheen, screw you too.

Copyright Brent Futo 1980-2001.