The Western world has long accepted the web of lies that is Muslim propaganda regarding the nature of the Crusades. President Obama, at a Christian prayer breakfast, excused the Muslim atrocities of beheading and burning captives alive by proclaiming that Christians did even worse things a thousand years ago during the Crusades. Everyone, including Obama, accepts the thousand year Muslim propaganda about how the Crusades were a Christian assault on peaceful Muslims living contentedly in harmony with their neighbors on the southern shore of the Mediterranean. The truth is entirely different. When the Muslim Arabs poured out of their barren lands to conquer and enslave their neighbors far and wide, they swept westward across North Africa, taking the Christian cities of North Africa by fire and sword, killing the men and selling the women and children into slavery. The Crusades were a failed attempt to recover the Christian cities and lands conquered by an invading and murderous Muslim army. ISIS is not an aberration, beheadings and burning alive is the Muslim way of war.

The distant hoofbeats sounded without warning
And moments later Muslim sword and lance
Struck down the Christians leaving none for mourning
The peaceful Christians stood but little chance
The men lay dead regardless of their bravery
The women and the children beaten, chained
And marched to Araby and sold in slavery
And so it went till no Christians remained
The Crescent flag of Islam flew unhindered
The Great White Sea was now a Muslim lake
The Christian cities burnt and black and cindered
Yet plans were made those cities to retake
And so were born the Cruses and the Templars
Who fought for Christ and for the long dead souls
Who died but who in time became exemplars
Of those who would don Crosses for their roles
The Crusades were attempts to retake places
Where Muslims with great cruelty and the sword
Had killed wholesale, removing all the traces
Of those who followed Christ with one accord
The Crusades failed despite the Cruses’ valor
The Muslim held the southern shore for good
The Great White Sea had changed its name and pallor
And Muslim galleys sailed where’er they would
Yet still today the lie’s told as intended
The Crusades were destruction and cruel death
To peaceful Muslims happy and contented
The lie still lives, and told with every breath

The voting is over in the Israeli elections, and exit polls indicate that Bibi Netanyahu, the Prime Minister of Israel, will be defeated, a prospect so greatly desired by the Israel and Netanyahu hating Obama that he sent money and Democrat Party election fixers to Israel to defeat a sitting leader of along time faithful ally of the United States. Obama and his coven of Red Witches sit around the big table, and Obama says, “This one is a freebie, it’s done and there goes Bibi.”

The Witches smile one at a time
Amused by inadvertent rhyme
Obama shakes his head and says
“The man must go, he’s irked the prez
A man who dared to hurl insults
At me, a man who gets results
I’ll teach that pipsqueak who’s the boss
He’ll cry and moan after his loss
The world will see I’m to be feared
What’s that you say, he’s won? That’s weird.”

The orb spider’s web is a marvel of structural engineering and design. The silken strands are equal in tensile strength to steel. After securing the load bearing anchor cables she spins the connecting webbing, securing each secondary cable to an anchor cable, until the web is symmetrical, beautiful, deadly and complete. In the angle formed by the exterior housing of the fireplace and the side of the house, an orb spider is busily building a web of silken filaments so fine as to be nearly invisible, except after a gentle Spring rain, when the web, catching the sun, shines with millions of tiny, brilliant diamonds.

And yet within a hunter waits
Her patience never strained
She knows her world has many fates
And every one explained
She was not taught in school to spin
Possesses no degrees
Born complete and without sin
She builds with practiced ease
Catastrophe is but the way
Her life just seems to tilt
In her brief life most every day
Her home must be rebuilt
And cheerfully she’s back to work
Repairing severed strands
She knows that life is not a quirk
That all is in God’s hands

Due to popular demand, I am temporarily switching from political verse to Country music lyrics, with herein my first effort. Would send it to Waylon, but he is, well…..you know. Anyone with some spare notes and minor chords is welcome to put some music to it.

CORNFLOWER BLUE

The mind drifts back, the time retold
Alone, and she is too
Her hair the glow of sunlit gold
And eyes cornflower blue

I saw her standing all alone
A warm and Springtime rain
We talked and then I walked her home
We never met again

Chorus:

We never met again
No, we never met again
We never met again, oh Lord
No we never met again

The Springtime rains have come and gone
The days go slowly by
I knew that she was still alone
With only me to cry

I see her in my sleepless dreams
Her eyes, enchanting smile
So near, so real, or so she seems
Yet knowing all the while

That time would always be on hold
Alone, and she is too
Her hair the glow of sunlit gold
And eyes cornflower blue

On the eve of his ascension to the crown of Hauterania, the Queen Mother instructs young Prince Barack, in iambic pentameter no less, how to conduct himself in a manner worthy of his noble ancestors. In a quiet, sincere and whispery voice she says,

To be the King of all that one surveys
And rule the masses well and bear their pain
To set no cost on fairness one purveys
And never use your crown for private gain
To do these things and graceful do them well
To be the father mother of the realm
Then at the tolling of the vesper bell
The bards will sing of he who had the helm
Your best must be the best that best can be
Make proud the ghosts who live yet in your bones
Remember that you rule the land and sea
And teleprompters give words golden tones
A King must be polite yet strong and firm
Must take no sass from councilor or priest
You rule for life, no limit on your term
And revel in your name, Barack the Least

The Left calls us bigots, we who object to the turning of our country over to people who had no part in building it. The Left calls us bigots because we say “Enough of your diversity!” The Left knows full well why we have these objections. They know full well we object to the invited invasion of people from another culture and way of life because we know that unlimited immigration will, in time, result in the death of our country. Yes, the land will still be here, the Mississippi will still flow to the sea, the mountains will still rise in the snow-capped distance, but other people will be living here, with their own language and customs and laws, our customs and laws and history laid to dust like those of Nineveh and Carthage. The Left knows full well the reasons for our objections to what they are doing, for they are doing it consciously and with purpose. Unlimited Third World immigration holds a fascination for the Left, and they are quite content to turn the country over to outsiders in the belief that by doing so they, the Left, will inherit eternal wealth, power and authority.

To live like a king, you must be king
With those below to kiss the ring
And for that you’ll do anything
To make it all come true
The laws and customs of your kind
You discard as the musty rind
Of those who now are out of mind
A chapter men once knew
The rivers flow, the fields are green
And traces of the past still seen
Though none remember what they mean
Or what they’re meant to do
Oh yes you claim your rule is just
You’ve built a temple for the dust
Of those past days that surely must
Have loved a king like you

There are those who say that the Koran is a map, a list of murderous actions for the adherents of the religion of peace to follow, as it was said of Mein Kampf that it was a road map that Adolf Hitler intended to follow. Neither is true. Neither Mein Kampf nor the Koran is a road map to actions, but road maps to thought, for the deed follows the thought. I had a telephone conversation recently with a niece who lives in northern Virginia, in the course of which she said her neighbors were Somali Muslims who had lived next door to her for ten years, and who had suddenly taken to growing beards and getting fit. She said she was worried that they were getting ready for something. I have no doubt that if the something they are preparing for includes the slaughter of my niece and her family that there will be neighbors who will defend the Somalis and say my niece must have done something to offend them.

Mein Kampf is an idea, not a book
Not words on paper printed in black ink
But worms implanted like a baited hook
Into the minds of those who cannot think
Of anything beyond the present good
That he or she envisions as a right
The mind extends beyond the neighborhood
And drinks the evil darkness of the night
The fire of ideas sharply burns
Into the mind and plants the deadly seed
That turns to action where the actor learns
The difference between the thought and deed
Kampfwagons rolled across the rivered plain
Triumphant and exhilarated too
Inflicting death, destruction, sorrow, pain
Until the butcher’s payment bill came due
The bill comes due for all who cast the dice
And follow the religious zealot home
The blood of martyrs but the sacrifice
Demanded for the conquering of Rome
The Koran, like Mein Kampf is but the thought
The deed is consummated by the herd
Who die content with what their blood has bought
As all who die who change the thought to word

Entropy is another way of saying ‘winding down’, and what we are seeing is the winding down of the brief life of a pustule called ISIS, a violent and stinking eruption of a murderously savage cult determined to commit suicide by cop. They will get their wish, but the longer the cops take to get there, the longer the cult lives to commit its savagery, the greater will be the final number of bodies piled up from the Pillars of Hercules to the gates of Nineveh.

The corpses of jihadis
Piled up in fields and wadis
Lay rotting stiff and stinking in the sun
The martyred dead lay sleeping
As dusk comes slowly creeping
Announcing that the pustule’s life is done
Dusk that finds the women wailing
Blaming all the men for failing
To destroy the infidel as God commands
With the dawn there come the breezes
Gentle wind that slowly eases
All the rotting corpses ‘neath the drifting sands
But the pustule is in hiding
Death may come but it is biding
Time before it stirs and raises up its head
To again begin the killing
Until the West is willing
To lance the pustule ‘til completely dead

The principal difficulty with historical perspective is that we don’t live in history, we live in the present, and our lives and affairs so ephemeral, historically speaking, as to be over and done in the space of a single breath. The history of our times as ultimately recorded is entirely dependent on externalities beyond our immediate knowledge, understanding or control. Our savants predict the future as confidently as the weathermen predict a coming storm, but the direction and intensity of the storm depends on the vagaries of the Gulf Stream, the Jet Stream, and how the Pacific Ocean feels at any given moment. Future events cannot be accurately predicted as they depend on the actions of unseen and unknown actors and the unanticipated confluence of events in far off places. This is not to say you don’t try. This is not to say you cannot see into the future at all. You can make an educated guess, and often you will be right, but mostly your view of the future is cloudy, distorted, and limited to the next few minutes.

The Augustan world was stable
And the entrails augured well
Yet Augustus was not able
To see that his brief held spell
As the ruler of creation
Was a step upon the stair
That a cruel and barbarous nation
Was to shortly be his heir
So it is with those now living
So intent on dire events
That they see not unforgiving
So intent on lives intense
Nonetheless if one dies trying
To do right or to compete
There are things still worth the dying
One must not accept defeat
Nations brave know in times distant
Writers who well know the end
Will declaim in voice insistent
That your knee did never bend

I grow weary, at times, of the world around me. I tire of the Clinton criminal enterprise. I tire of the fascist Obama administration that destroys those who disagree with it or do not knuckle under to extortion. I tire of missing emails and appointments of unabashed Communist enemies of my country to important posts. I look back at the country I was born into and realize that country is no more. I am standing in the doorway, ready to leave, reliving the days of my youth, and wondering what our lives here might have meant, if anything.

When I think of the things I’ve seen
And think about what they might mean
I realize that in my time
The world had made a leaping climb
From a young singer they called Bing
And football run from single wing
To small computers driving cars
And spaceships taking off for Mars
That Hallowe’en in ‘29
When I arrived all still seemed fine
But then the Great Depression came
And life no longer seemed a game
Tall trees I climbed, be home by dark
Some baseball in the local park
A teen, the war news every day
The battlefields so far away
The radio, a Silver horse
The ad for Charles Alas course
Then television! Milton Berle
The Op’ry and Minnie Pearl
The jet planes lined up at the gate
The Boeing and the DC-8
The Cold War with the Russian bear
The Fulda Gap, a steely stare
A world we thought would never change
Had leaped ahead, and all seemed strange
Computers came and cell phones too
Good life for all not just the few
I find though that as I grow old
Those youthful times now shine like gold
The trees I climbed reached to the sky
While far below the eagles fly
The baseballs I had hit so hard
Were line drives clear on out the yard
The creek we swam in to get cool
Seemed an Olympic swimming pool
We walked for miles, my mongrel mutt
Beside me in the dirt track rut
As fine a dog a boy could find
And sometimes he would even mind
The days of youth forever gone
The days of waking up at dawn
In the back yard inside a tent
With not a clue what it all meant
It meant that one day we would see
Our children young and such as we
We know at last what it all means
We’ve done our part to pass the genes
Entrusted by those gone before
To those now standing by the door
Reliving now our youthful dreams
While grandkids stand beside small streams
And watch the dragonflies and birds
And know there’s beauty in such words