Cancel this, censor that,
pixelate all the fact,
to make a right old cover story,
where we see, half the glory,
leaving our senses underfed,
in relentless watershed,
the cool kids, don’t like the blood,
they don’t like to play in mud,
to catch all colds, made to test,
they play chicken, in the nest,
so tepid, has become the reign,
when history, isn’t read the same,
a need to clear all this mist,
comes from disappointed lips,
those who’ve lived, and done the deeds,
fight those asterisks that impede,
by they who have “yet to sin”,
the poster child, who owns the bin,
but in a war, that can reclaim,
the understanding of mortal blame,
with justified bouts, between the ages,
we can recover heritage pages,
perhaps, in order, to salvage loss,
we could kill, a YouTube boss.