The Cone of Silence

I said-

Hello soundproof room my friend.

I’ll stay here till for me they send.

Because young Barry is now speaking.

My ready button is not yet blinking.

And my mission is to wait and then explain,

my campaign,

waiting, in the cone of silence.

In peaceful thought I sat alone,

In Warren’s church of glass and stone.

Thoughts of speaking did not give me cramps.

I didn’t sweat then and my pits weren’t damp.

When my eyes were prompted by the flash of

a blinking light,

that awesome night,

I walked from the cone of silence.

And by the church’s light I saw,

three thousand people maybe more,

people shocked there with Barack’s speaking,

people angry with “paygrade’s” meaning,

people writing off empty visions not well shared,

they did compare,

when I entered from the cone of silence.

Folks said before you just don’t know,

the whack you’ll take from Barrry O.

They heard my words then and that I don’t eschew,

my love of country and my passion true.

And my words like a warrior’s trumpet blared,

without compare,

after the cone of silence.

Then the drive-bys lied and whined,

to their masses in decline.

A. Mitchell lashed out with nostrilled diction,

said I eavesdropped in on O’s fiction.

But the signs say they’re all false prophets

writing fiction in their wide stance stalls.

What free-fall?

I heard nothing in the cone of silence.