The Children’s Crusade
You were squeezing my heart
but now I’m bored.
don’t say what’s on your mind
Just row, row, row your boat
Michael, row your boat ashore
let those children fight your dirty war.
And, yes, we too were once slaves making bricks
and never finish making bricks but
God, isn’t crusade a nasty word?
We give them balloons
and paint their faces
all of this pageantry meaning what?
The parsley’s for those bitter days.
A few other of my poems:
So I held up my right hand and I made her a promise: “Mary,” I said, “I don’t think this book of mine is ever going to be finished. I must have written five thousand pages by now, and thrown them all away. If I ever do finish it, though, I give you my word of honor: there won’t be a part for Frank Sinatra or John Wayne.
“I tell you what,” I said, “I’ll call it The Children’s Crusade.”
Kurt Vonnegut, “Slaughterhouse-Five, or The Children’s Crusade: A Duty Dance with Death”