A first draft of a more serious piece. Please excuse rough bits.
We meet in shady groves,
Silently shuffling blood-ridden feet,
And we cry: liberty! Liberty!
But every voice falls silently,
To the ears of those we abide.
Instead of hearing,
They hand us campaign buttons,
With which we prick our fingers.
They turn up the televisions,
With which we burn all color from our eyes.
And then they smile wide,
At our holy media matrimony,
Between sullen hearts and wicked minds.
Now, in carved out holes,
Raped of freedom, tangled in chains,
We cry: where are our Fathers!
Only one rises and admits,
We let them do all of this.
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