A Discontented Season

I was 16 when I first protested
And took a stand against a war
I was 16 when I protected
My friend of 24

We were in a crowd of thousands,
Pressed ‘round the pleasant fountains
Which gushed outside
The presidential quarters

Helicopters filled the air,
Policemen just seemed everywhere
& old and young alike
were interviewed by eager, rude reporters

Ten thousand strong and weak we stood,
In that Century City neighborhood,
To exercise our First Amendment rights,
When nightsticks started beating,
Bullhorns started bleating
& fear and panic roared out into the night

The oldest and the frailest
Seemed foremost on the A-list
Of whom police felt best to target first,
And the crippled and the small
Were made to cringe and fall,
While the screaming & the mayhem just got worse

I and my girl companion,
Though we tried, could not abandon
The place in which we both stood, honor-bound
And blows kept hailing down like fire,
The insanity and screams flew higher,
then my shorter, smaller partner fell to ground,
pounded on by flailing nightsticks,
assaulted hard by flying high kicks
from the men who swore that they’d protect and serve

So I, who was much larger
Than the girl (they never charged her)
Told them to pick on someone their own size,
& started hitting those policemen,
two big and strong, quite mad policemen,
who looked upon my pounding with great surprise

then glanced, one to the other,
decided to take cover,
and disappeared before my crying eyes

I turned my sad attention
To my friend without contention
& pulled her, beat and broken, from the curb

We left that demonstration
Only to face harsh condemnation
Which was spewed and vented out
Through later written word

We were judged and were convicted
By a people deep conflicted
& branded traitors to the country we held dear
And we wondered what the point was
In proclaiming a just and right cause
If all our efforts did was increase fear

We’d insisted on our freedom
In that discontented season,
But the war went on despite us, just the same,
And today, in this new century,
With Vietnam as ancient history,
The only thing I know is, nothing’s changed

For we’ve got another enemy,
A source of deep antipathy,
And the war goes on despite us,
Just the same

The Full Title of this poem is:
"A Discontented Season (History Repeats Itself, or What's The Killing For?)