Monday, February 13, 2017


Written originally for Poet of the Light on the WORDS Community

Quislings quickly make me queasy,
Ingratiating Uriah Heeps,
Soulless types who know
No loyalty except their own
Advancement. Mama would
Be for sale if they could make a
Profit on her. You remember them
When, but that is only a mirage;
Their soul vanished long ago
In the new found heat of the
New regime. But somehow,
Scum always rises to the top.

(C) 2017 David W. Palmer

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