And here's another one which will require
I guess a little explanation.
I read in this auditorium a couple
of my peace poems or anti-war poems however you will.
So I decided not to read very much of that sort of thing
tonight.
But there's one short one I want to read
because it gives me a chance to get my [? aurion ?] of course.
As a parent, this poem was written
as a parent, two parents.
So really it shouldn't concern anybody
who isn't especially those who don't have sons.
I blame parents and I include myself
in that number for the situation we are in.
If the parents were out there trying
to protect their children instead of demonstrating
perhaps to protect their children
and instead of the children demonstrating
I think we'd be in a great deal better situation than we are.
Nothing angers me more than a parent who
belittles his child for trying to avoid
suicide or something like that.
The parent wouldn't go if it meant risking his life
but he's willing to send his child.
I often wonder if the government came to me
I have a son who is not draft age
but will be someday probably very soon.
If the government came to me and said-- if I were a farmer
and raised a crop of corn and the government came and said,
we're taking your crop of corn without reimbursement,
I would scream very loud.
If the government came and said, we're
taking your property, your house without reimbursement
I would be furious.
But the government comes to us and says we are taking your son
and we say goodbye.
This is a hard doctrine full of very little comfort.
But I really feel strongly about it.
No one will take my son away from me unless they put me
in jail or kill me first.
Unless he wants to go.
If he wants to go that's his business.
But no one will take him away from me against his will.
They may have to walk over my body.
Well, that's enough of that.
The image, the central image here
is the death wagon in 16th, 17th century London when
the plague was at its height, the death wagon
came around every morning.
And the people took out their dead
and put them on the death cart.
And the man who led the death cart around rang the bell
and said bring out your dead.
This is called "The War" and it's very short.
Each day the terror wagon passes while elevators
hesitate between floors and frightened
windows cover their eyes.
The bell rings, bring out your dead, bring out your dead.
The bell keeps ringing.
We are sad quiet men in a difficult century.
We run our treacherous fingers through their hair one
last time and trade our children for the most expensive versions
of old lies.