OBAMA POEM A Nations Wealth Is Not It's Wheat, Oil Or Gold

by TOM ZART   Jan 29, 2009


A Nations Wealth Is Not It's Wheat, Oil Or Gold


A nations wealth is not it's wheat, oil or gold
But the people who live there both young and old.
Their wealth is a product of mans daily toil
Be they swing wars saber or plow God's soil.

Our riches can certainly grow their own wings
Though it's love that keeps us happy not things.
When we become rich beyond our wildest dreams
That's when Satan always pursues us it seems.

Let no one fall victim to their surplus wealth
For when it happens they'll find they've lost their health.
All wealth either serves or governs its holder
As we who strive wear life's cross on our shoulder.


Our workers are our saviors
The redeemers of every race.
From those who built the pyramids
To the rockets for outer space.

With our fingers weary and worn
And our eyelids heavy and red
We feel we've earned God's blessings
As we lay down our sleepy head.

After death there'll be lots of rest
Though the living must suffer toil
For every thing that man must have
Comes from the air, the sea and soil.

"Yes" labor is part of life on earth
For without it we make no gains.
By work we receive life's rewards
As fortunes are made by our pains.


Liberty is to be free and independent
Without slavery, imprisonment, or loss of right.
Though bit-by-bit many try to steal it away
For if they were to take it all at once, we'd fight.

So protect your liberty that others don't have
For beside life, there's nothing more precious on earth.
Too many have yearned, fought, suffered, and died for it
And we must never lose sight of what liberty's worth.

Evil loves to strike liberty from the cheeks of all
And it's been that way since the beginning of time.
For a mind that's not allowed to have a free thought
Becomes but a slave to the masters of mankind.


In their new uniforms
The young march off
Not knowing who shall return.
With a proud devotion
They brandish their flag
Leaving loved ones to wonder and yearn.

May we all be buried
By all of our children
Is an ancient tribal prayer.
They're so easy to lose
But so hard to forget
Such a burden for a parent to bear.

The taste of victory
Shall soon be forgotten
But never that which was lost.
For those rows of white headstones
In peaceful green fields
Make it easy to tally the cost.

America has survived
All attempts to destroy
Knowing the cruelty of war
And we who remain
Must help keep her free
For those who can march no more!

By Soul Poet
Tom Zart
Most Published Poet
On The Web


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