POEM: Still Digging

I saw that nation when it was anew,

and all the dreams of countrymen, they flew.

But danced back to the Earth in flaky ash.

As the dictator donned his glitter sash.

He said, “The fault? You’ll find it five miles down

in the bowels of bunkers, underground.”

People went to digging with their spoons,

and cursed the worst while burning at high noon.

From day-to-day you’ll find that they still dig.

No need to build a gallows or a brig.

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