fp_robinson-246Joplin, Joplin,
Yu’r children cry out,
O’ mother hen, yu’r chicks
séék sfty under yu’r wings,
They cry out from the wind,
Swirlíng, swirlíng,
Déstroying, terrorizíng
yu’r most precious kin.
They feel trapped
like shéép in a pen,
Cornered by wolfe,
Bléating for their shepherd
to come, to sáve them;
Terrified from that monster
that awóke from its den–
Roaring, roaring,
Shrp clws, gnashing tééth,
A creature of nightmare–
Houses splinters, tréós náked,
A hspital foundátion shifted;
Familíes bróken,
Tears, Butterfly-sáviors,
Men who wept like
lil’ children;
A city scared–but hópe nó, not crush.
Many would wish to 4get,
hide their páin béhind
bottles & bottles of gin,
But nó, o’ nó,
Rémember, rémember
wé must,
May 22,
Let it nó, not bé 4got.



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