The serpents head slithered, roses withered and birds soared,
compare an apple to the earth, a circle rotten to the very core.

The blades of the chopper roar, as I contemplated the meaning,
of the terms one uses in this world ---I know believing is seeing.
Relieving stress I start reading, a paper called the Bill of Rights,
to the illiterate children filled in fright, soon to be killed in fights.
The constitution is really a myth, and God is a very shoddy smith.
We missionaries incorporate technology, a better way to kill with.

Listen to my few words, even if they hurt, my very dearest peach,
reach for the stars, and teach each person in words you preach.

It's a fruitless endeavor, if you mind the rather thought out pun,
to try to succeed, think you won, and giving a society another gun.
I'd build a stone house made of bricks so your starving children can sit,
and write these words of unsurpassed wit, and never ever try to quit.
I'll sketch words on a stone with a chisel on a hut in the light of a candle,
my hand shaking as I grasp the handle, almost scared out of my sandals.

You'll probably never read these words, but I only hope some day you will,
and haven't been killed and until that day, bite the world and take your fill.

I'll close my eyes and turn to see that lonely child staring, never eating,
having suffered a hundred beatings and eyes wide but still never really seeing.
We're still like old gunslingers for a second, then I hide behind some rocks,
and reappear near the child, who seems shocked, in my hands a large box.
I hand it to her, who can't see my smile in the night and through the gloom,
A fruitless endeavor as she tries to read engravings by the light of the moon.

To Someone Special:
In this box of a massive size, in order are books of our alphabet to classic stories,
Your prize, read one of the hundred books a year, so life and death aren't so boring.