Sunday Poem: The feigning of innocence.

I found the poem first, and then recalled Adam’s advise to link to the Other McCain and help my mate out. I found another example of Florida man (transgender version) being excused because transgender. Most such people are law abiding: as are most people with dark skin. But a person who had served a considerable amount of time in prison was in both groups and shot by police — a risk career criminals take, and so he is deemed innocent by the social justice brigade.

From The Other McCain. Stacey Screenshot it so I did not have to.

You can get all the details of the case by following the link below. THe facts of he case are immaterial to the left narrative.

So, a career criminal, out on bond for an aggravated assault charge, who had vowed never to go back to prison and warned of a “standoff” with police, and who had just stabbed somebody to death, got killed in a confrontation with police. In what sense is “Tony” the victim here?

But this is how “social justice” works. Merely by being a member of a particular category, you’re automatically a victim, no matter what happens, and everyone is required to play along with this victimhood narrative, or else they’re guilty of “transphobia” or racism or whatever.

The OTher McCain

The alleged victim, Tony McDade, to whom the activists attribute innocence.

What we all need to do is repent. Donne knew this, as he knew that erotic pleasure was fleeting. In this poem the contempt of the woman, who has fallen out of desire for the poet is apparent.

If, like the poet, you turn to God, expect the contempt of those who consider that you were a cad, an alpha, and they were innocent, a victim. The Poet is clear about his guilt. His accusation is more astute. The claim of innocence is the more deadly sin.

The Apparition

When by thy scorn, O murd’ress, I am dead
And that thou think’st thee free
From all solicitation from me,
Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,
And thee, feign’d vestal, in worse arms shall see;
Then thy sick taper will begin to wink,
And he, whose thou art then, being tir’d before,
Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, think
Thou call’st for more,
And in false sleep will from thee shrink;
And then, poor aspen wretch, neglected thou
Bath’d in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie
A verier ghost than I.
What I will say, I will not tell thee now,
Lest that preserve thee; and since my love is spent,
I’had rather thou shouldst painfully repent,
Than by my threat’nings rest still innocent.

John Donne