A Carving on the Broken Bench of Humanity

By such sordid deeds, our decaying pride flies,

when it comes to aiming, the wrong person always dies,

the others that continue, re-write such a script,

we proud kings and queens, who will fester in the crypt,

let trifles play out; release a groundhog; slam the door,

our sense of ceremony’s, more important than the floor,

by choice our ships are anchored, we refuse to move,

as twisted set traditions, comprises our main groove,

the rhythm of our march, is clearly not to tempo,

as some think that a poppy, can stop a yearnful demo,

when we say unite; we in truth, build the walls,

with bridges we have broken, to the sound of applause,

such a charming righteous way, I’m sure you’ll all agree,

re-choosing to be ignorant, we make our agony,

with such aired convolution, it’s hard to pick a side,

but five thousand kids in rubble, surely tell no lies,

with such sorrows unfolding, I have to live in hope,

if I listen to my gremlins, I’ll make a slippery slope,

I’ll dwell in cage; if I succeed; where Guy had failed,

Messiah’s ghost, plays in ash, after they are nailed,

so, in the wood of sycophants, I’ll etch this little note,

the contents of which; I think, mankind should promote,

instead of writing price tags, and killing all you own,

make a concentrated effort to mend the place, you call home!