The Peoples' Great Republic

I wrote this poem in the mid-1970s.
Was I prophetic?

The sky is still so blue here,
and the earth is still quite green.
That today could come from yesterday
no one could have then foreseen.
The sun should not be shining
upon any grassy scene.
There is nothing good to live for
since the ego quarantine.

The People's Great Republic
is but someone's pretty dream.
But it does not follow quite that way.
It is but a bad regime.
The people never sensed that
it was someone's wretched scheme
to bind all men to masters
and to steal their self-esteem.

The People's Great Republic
overruns with death's disease.
A man knows not and never knows
the men whom he must please.
And the whims of all his leaders
float like dust upon the breeze.
But the words of their commandments
are like roots of giant trees.

The People's Great Republic
is but gangster rule gone wild.
It is full of punks and pipers
and of Hitlers all self-styled.
And the people all know nothing.
But although they've been defiled,
they remember with affection
when their leader turned and smiled.

The People's Great Republic
is but mindlessness berserk.
While they tie each man to every man,
they make sure that he will work.
That no man should rise to greatness
is a massive statist quirk.
They give the loam to farming men
and the numbers to the clerk.

The People's Great Republic
keeps the power to its own.
It keeps men bound in silence
and no coup has ever grown.
And to rule with fear is their one way
that they stay upon their throne.
And to turn men on each other
makes the state into a stone.

Copyright 2009 Robert Villegas