With tempers red as a Cardinal’s crown,
We thrust and parry with wordy swords.
We draw lines in the sand, each taking a stand
Out of sorts, the truth out of sight.
With sundry arguments thundering loud,
We cling to our vision,
Forget the origin,
Lose our thought,
Tenaciously cleave to our version of right.
Later we laugh, call argument the spice,
The pepper, the salt, the seasoning of life.
Would there be any less zest, any less worth
If we buried our hatchets and grew peace on earth?