This poem was written after a serious debate on the merits of organized religion with a group of missionaries.
Woodstock, Penn State, Tienamen Square,
I speak of them reverantly,
though I wasnt even there.
And this point you quite often declare,
when I speak of El Che’s deeds,
your reply is always “you weren’t even there!”
I speak of the Sudanese and the tragedies they bear,
and how we should give them aid,
but you dont give a damn, you aren’t even there.
Nay your larger worries are the books men read and the clothes they wear,
and when i ask why you so imperiously judge,
your reply is the will of God, but how could you know he isnt ever there?
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