Flicker faintly for a forever,
Folded into forks of fate.
Destitute, never am I, only blown on these undesirable winds
That touch my near-new but ailing skin-flesh,
No not destitute, only stalled, soon to have my sail filled,
Opened high on the skipping breeze of wonder that is youth.
A dozen high and mighty lords of the earth could have their entrails sour,
On sacrificial stones of greed and ambition,
What would we care, the lower rich, the hate filled malcontents?
We who see our world through green spectacles of envy.
We care not for you masters of our fates,
Let you die, and we shall not but batt an eye,
For we love you no more than an appliance,
Broken, dead? We purchase another.
That is all you are to us,
Worthy of no more thought, than a washing machine.
A fridge.
A microwave.
No one cries,
When a microwave dies,
Boys.
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