by Cally Conan-Davies
I won't let the good men go unsung
Good men throw their bodies on the lives
of their mothers and their children and their wives
and the unknown. Good men don't die alone
Each day this year, my soul has been punched and stunned
by bullet-men ripping through the dance we do
by bully-men raping girls or threatening to
by barging-men pushing first through the doors of power
while good men act as if nothing mattered more
than to restore the faded elf to the christmas tree
to greet you every morning with toast and tea
to be the hand pressed in the hole the bullet tore
I refuse to let the good men go unsung
They are not many. They are one and one and one . . .
Cally Conan-Davies is a writer who expresses here her complex feelings of rage and powerful gratitude.
I won't let the good men go unsung
Good men throw their bodies on the lives
of their mothers and their children and their wives
and the unknown. Good men don't die alone
Each day this year, my soul has been punched and stunned
by bullet-men ripping through the dance we do
by bully-men raping girls or threatening to
by barging-men pushing first through the doors of power
while good men act as if nothing mattered more
than to restore the faded elf to the christmas tree
to greet you every morning with toast and tea
to be the hand pressed in the hole the bullet tore
I refuse to let the good men go unsung
They are not many. They are one and one and one . . .
Cally Conan-Davies is a writer who expresses here her complex feelings of rage and powerful gratitude.
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