No Epitaph The lies lie heavy on his chest, Striped red, striped white, now tattered vest And soon to draw his final breath--- Who’ll mourn this Son of Freedom’s death? I look around, there’s none but me With ears to hear and eyes to see. Alone beside his rotting bier--- Their hearts of stone would shed no tear. ‘Tis better that they are not here, Who seethe with hate, who thrive on fear And war against this land, once free--- Grotesque, these Sons of Anarchy. Run through the gutter, down the drain, My Uncle’s flag, not seen again. On Reading Old Poetry, 2020 My country dies around me. __No battle has been fought. Inaction does confound me, __For I, I can do naught. But what about the many? __Seems they’re confounded too. None rises up, not any--- __There’s nothing they can do. What mystery travails her? __Does there a fever rage? What is it that assails her? __Is she but of an age? Perhaps a simple answer? __We watch and she does fall. Could be there was no cancer--- __Did the Almighty call? Son of Mario on New York Gov. Andrew Cuomo The Altar Boy has struck again, His Honor and his deadly pen! The elderly and babies too--- See what this psychopath can do! How gleefully he signs his name--- My governor, devoid of shame. Joe Tessitore is a retired New York City resident and poet.