There’s something wrong with the world,
Wrong, deformed, corrupt,
By the seams, it pours,
The good is strained, gnarled.
The fists are clenching on the necks of tired souls.
And the good is straining, tearing.

No one has seen before,
Begging for the noose,
In DNA inscribed, obedience.

The few, flushed with the many,
With the wicked, drinking for all.
No, no this could so easily change.
But change is sly.
The world, so different,
Remains the same.