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Sanity is vanity when held by your precious, secret mirror
Lust is disgust, when lost on the trail between your ears

Words are like dynamite without really exploding
Hidden for years while slowly always eroding

A pipey lil’ bomb, without a proper fuse
Can make a mindful soul into last page news

Where did it start, when did it go
what will the mystery say or know?

Evil ain’t a season, that rides on solar winds
-and upon which, all of sacred life depends

Goodness murders winter’s spite and vileness and scorn
It takes away the blue-ish ice, that died when it was born

So you tell me you are normal, that your misery is kind
I offer you tomorrow, and not what’s left behind

Tell me it ain’t what it ain’t, and what you cannot feel
Make a liar out of the teacher, who is woefully un-real

Ignore all of the chapters, in the book of eternal time
Clocks are just for people, who stand in the endless line

The tribe is whipping, beating, like a heart in a seizure
The war paint is dripping, off the faces of obese leisure

Blame it on the crazy caring gentle ones- you say are all insane
Sharpen your little boy tomahawk, inside your shallow brain

You can’t play with Gelignite and expect a happy ending
But you can just go lose that mirror, and forget what you’re defending…

Daddeee look!…Burma Shave signs on the road behind ahead
Gives us all a reason, to be grateful, but not for what we dread…

About this poem

A nostalgic reflection about fond memories driving with my dad, reading old Burma Shave signs. It's also a commentary on how much has changed since then, the rise of ego-driven fools, the pending consequences of blind ambitions!

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Written on November 01, 2021

Submitted by savillealan on November 02, 2021

1:18 min read

Alan Saville

Musician, actor, song-writer, writer and poet-for many many years. more…

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    "BURMA SHAVE" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2022. Web. 23 Jan. 2022. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/113207/burma-shave>.

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