‘You are just what you eat,’ it has been said.
Not me. I seem to be what I have read.
Old boy’s-adventure books of derring do
And British pluck: high-minded heroes who
Were God-ordained to rule a child-like breed
Of dusky skin, with gun-boat if the need
Arose. No questions loomed of other’s right
To work out their own destiny. The might
Of British arms acquired divinity.
Bles-sed those coerced by British sovereignty.
My window on the States, emotive scenes
Crafted by those glossy magazines.
Sentimental hooks from Norman Rockwell.
A bogus ‘good life’ hiding its soft sell
Beneath warm puppies, apple pie, and motherhood.
Consumerism touted as the common good.
Deluged with that slick posture of contentment
How could one doubt the Madison Street argument?
But!
The seeming verities that shaped a pliant youth
Have lost their consecration as revealed truth.
Races once despised prevail. The Titan’s glories fade.
Tail-twisted in world forums and out-gunned in trade,
With social ills endemic, a bleak portrait grows
Resisting air-brush touch-up. Every blemish shows.
Once great their power. Vicariously their heights were mine.
And being one with them, I now mourn our decline.