Ungainly goes the red flag runner.
His lip is twisted,
And eyes are off center.
He never grew as tall as he should've.
Another day runs with the red flag runner.
No drums or flute,
Just that ugly banner,
And the sun beating down from the lofty sky.
There goes the red flag runner.
Pounding the road with worn out toes,
Treading alone with his bright red load,
Along the edge of the trees.
The days grow cool for the red flag runner.
Summer's great warm yawn is almost over,
Fall is in the veins of the leaves,
And still he marches.
An ill-fitted coat is procured for the red flag runner.
It appeared on his back sometime in the night,
The same one as last year,
The year before, the year before, the year before.
No schoolyard play for the red flag runner.
He's making rounds,
He's pocketing stones all day,
Pervading the neighborhoods as always.
Now doors are shut to the red flag runner.
Winter is deep,
And he is gaunt,
But he holds the terrible signal high and we all know from inside our fire-lit living rooms that he's still out there.
Still out there is the red flag runner.
We'd do more perhaps,
But we don't out of disgust or fear,
Or maybe because it's the same every season and every single year.
