Ol’ Ben

The trees have ears—and God, of course
will make his war upon his horse
They listen as a desert missile,
a dromedary guff-whistle,
bears up, upon its back,
a sneak attack

The man with lightning on his lips
Ol’ Ben, a silverfish, he slips
Upstairs into the ghostly hall
Discovers portraits on the wall
And calculates how much to charge
For living large

While leading men into the space
His arms imbibe the staircase
And flailing through the muddy dark
The man surveys the mark

A club was formed, the house was moved
Beyond the mountains, as it proved
That people signed much bigger checks
The farther on they had to trek
And so the gang made dynamite
From fear and hope and pyrite

With flimsy arguments to strangers
Leading down into the danger,
Ben and friends, they tunneled through
And counted as their coin accrued
Until they reached the other side
With nothing left to hide

For just a moment, there it stood
A mansion made of cedar wood
Until Ol’ Ben, he got the chills
(A voice escaped the windowsills)
He touched his finger to his ear
And made the mansion disappear

The trees all cheer to hear the sighs
That from all pocketbooks arise
While some from sorrow, some relief
There stands a man who once was thief
A camel and a horse depart
Into the forest, pulling carts
of women, mothers, fathers, men—
offense to God afeard again