Round em up those richly lies and dress them in their nines.
Tie those silks around their necks and shut those wrinkly eyes.
Close the caskets slide them in, turn the hearses on.
Drive them down those empty streets the old men have moved on.
Widowed wives they dare not come to bid these coots farewell.
Nor son or daughter speak a sound they’ve turned to other bells.
The grave yard is a barren place no bearers, priests or diggers.
For not a man nor woman came to see those crusty figures.
The papers that they signed with blood have turned to ash and dust.
The money built on blacks who run has lost its greedy lust.
Their spiteful sins we bid goodbye with every final breath.
And took each brick that they had lain and tossed it with their deaths.
The old men died and we rejoiced our children would be free.
And black and white and gay and straight can finally just be.
How fitting not a soul did come to see the old men die.
The coffins went right to the ground without even a sigh.
The papers did not mourn their deaths the headline read “We’re free!”
The books they burnt were all restored with gratifying glee.
It was a morning middle March the winter all but gone.
The city shined in sunny light with buildings shadowed down.
Cabbies curled their hands around their coffees with a smile.
The horses of good Central Park contently trot with style.
It wasn’t cold but yet not warm was perfect for the spring.
As men in suits walked down the Ave their mobiles twittering.
Mums and dads and children snapped their pics throughout the day.
And through it all not a single soul realized who passed away.
Where are all the old men gone a young girl asked her mother.
The old men did some awful things and now they’re six feet under.
*Featured Art – Old Man with a Top Hat 1882 by Vincent van Gogh. In this pencil, lithographic crayon, pen and brush and ink, Van Gogh used many different shades of black. He scratched away some of the deep black lithographic ink in the hat to suggest a gleaming stripe.