Do you reckon man will ever bring about peace? says he.
Naw, says me.

Why not?
How's that?
Well, it's like this. Say I had a pomegranate tree.
And just say you wanted to buy a bushel.
I don't like pomegranates.
Don't matter.
Go on.
I offer to sell you a bushel for, oh, say a hundred dollars.
Now you think that's a mite steep, especially for something
you don't like much to begin with. So you decide it would be
easier--and cheaper--to take them by force.
And what do you do?
I slap your face.
And what do I do?
You slap me back.
And that's war?
Same as.

Do you reckon ever man should have his own tree? says he.
Naw, says me.

Archived Poetry