The Phantom Of Fly-Over Country

79Midwester.jpg

Please don’t, if you are, be annoyed –

But this rhythm I cannot avoid

In this world it’s the gimmick,

One must speak in limerick

Or language cannot be employed.

Experience leads me to see

That in every society

The order maintained

Is eventually drained

Creating the vigilante.

No longer his peaceful pursuit

One farmer becomes resolute

In passing his home,

I happen to roam

‘Tween him and a huge institute.

Those coveting land are cutthroat

And legal resistance remote

With buying folks out

Now losing its clout

The scene hits a sinister note.

The world wants more homes on this land

New space couldn’t meet the demand

So buyers persuaded,

And land for cash traded

Until only hold-outs still stand.

“We’ll make you so rich you won’t care!

You’ll move off that place with a flair!”

But money fell short,

That farmer’s retort

Explained why he was staying there:

“This land marks my family’s time

In space it’s our one place sublime

Sentiment is the stuff;

Money isn’t enough

And betrayal of love is a crime.

We’ve been here for 200 years

Through history’s laughter and tears

We won’t move for you,

You have a home too

Go to it now. Let’s see your rears.”

But “No” was no option for real

No block for the corporate zeal

Dead animals next,

A farm that seemed hexed

And produce that had no appeal.

With faith in authorities torn

A secret identity’s born

Animosities fester,

Then comes The Midwester

Hard striking from dusk until morn.

Attacking the thugs in the field

His ears pick up cell phones revealed –

His traps lie in wait,

With decoys and bait

Determined that he’ll never yield

He rides motor boots for high speed

Across bumpy plains like a steed

An arm-fired shell

Delivers hot Hell

And a buckshot blast does its harsh deed.

Strategically placed spikes and hooks

At first get those skeptical looks

‘Til enemies reach

Beyond the breach

Discovering pain in their nooks

On forearm he’s mounted a gun

His weapons are not meant to stun

He’s dust-proofed his suit,

And all tech, to boot –

For a battle that cannot be won.

But “I aim to protect what is mine

Is a cry that is heard through all time

“And that of my kin,” again and again

Yet fruit always falls from the vine.

An other earth now that I fear

Is the one I’m experiencing here

It seems I’m a cow

That’s sentient somehow

And that’s no direction I’d steer.

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