Soldier's Business

Racing from the gilded fort and never once to turn,
No repentant shout nor silent thought of valiance to burn.

And stood he by, attentive; why did he stalwart stay,
For king and country and all her glory, no mercenary pay.

Abandoned loves for greater things; business to be done,
Nor to return until he learns the general battle won.

Though a private, the least of grunt is his only name,
But by and by is honored still included in the game.

Whence came wars and fights among him; injuries and death?
But wicked lies and vile slander in every sinners breath.

And though his ruler poses good, the enemy wise the same,
The soldier serves the weaker set, devoid of all their shame.

But to his God he's faithful most since he's not god enough,
Praises Him at every whim with cig'rette's savored puff.

By Evan Gunn Wilson

If God Were A Tyrant

Wast thou my only one?  My single savior?

My only child and sole most favor,

That blessed our blood with innocent eyes,

And welled our hopes with favorable lies.

Righteous lies that none may doubt,

Of which brought joy and were much about,

Living days, though pirated now,

Achieving intellect and I'd say how,

Thee did offer amusing answers,

By prophetic images, angelic dancers.

But you were taken in frightful manner,

By God waving his tyranic banner.

He built me up and gave me laughter,

Through your joys and later after,

Ript violently from my helpless hands,

Passing through the untimely sands.

He is a monster! A wretched king of pain,

While all his adorers to me have sain,

"There is a time for death, and for life."

As if these actions weren't built on strife.

Strife unjustified by all who note,

What I've recorded here by wrote.

Be off with you I need you not,

I pray your church in a grave may rot.

I need not your son, he was yours,

Otherwise, blood be spilt by this lore.

By Evan Gunn Wilson

Tobacco Poetry Revisited

 Here is a half assed poem I just wrote.  Though the language is not much to speak of, I hope you enjoy the sentiment.

Who will we call when we die of smoke?

When no remedies there to fix what we broke.

Then we will feel the fresh air's choke,

Of King James the First! (a miserable moke)

That Counterblaste King of Stuart land,

Saves us all with his potentate hand.

By the time that devil Raleigh drew near,

Was James ready to strike us with fear.

'Twas that ruler that started on health,

So we can live longer in miserable wealth.

A wealth we would like to indulge ourselves in,

Only to find that these things are sin.

Call on him, and a seance conduct,

For severe lectures, the ghost instructs.

But if you wish to be comfortably old,

Join for a smoke in the unforgiving cold.

"Sir Walter Raleigh, name of worth!

How sweet for thee to know.

King James who never smoked on earth,

Is smoking down below!"

By Evan Gunn Wilson