There’s nothing like a re-write,
where man thinks they’re God,
impurities do cloud the light,
no need for fishing rod,
as in water, they be monsters,
that climb up welcome spout,
then they bow to mobsters,
that make a wholesome drought,
the fields are empty too,
a crop and tractor theft,
they beat their neighbours black and blue,
to leave all kin bereft,
cities blare out their song,
everyone, has to be busy,
to make a right, look so wrong,
stability is dizzy.