Published on Jun 15, 2019
Small towns turning brown, no where left to run.
World majorities chasing down our elderly, to them it's fun.
Everywhere a foreign tongue, a foreign song is sung.
Hardly containing their celebration, convinced they've all but won.
Heaving grief, heaving groceries, seven years worth at least.
Cans of expired yellow pea soup will make a splendid feast.
The days of our lives, as the soap opera goes, are as grains of sand.
Leaving your bike laying around, letting go of a child's hand,
were luxuries, not guarantees.
You foolish disciples of the Pharisees.
You gave up without a fight so that you could have a life of ease.
The fruit of betrayal, no safe streets left to walk upon.
Everything you took for granted, is now gone.
World majorities chasing down our elderly, to them it's fun.
Everywhere a foreign tongue, a foreign song is sung.
Hardly containing their celebration, convinced they've all but won.
Heaving grief, heaving groceries, seven years worth at least.
Cans of expired yellow pea soup will make a splendid feast.
The days of our lives, as the soap opera goes, are as grains of sand.
Leaving your bike laying around, letting go of a child's hand,
were luxuries, not guarantees.
You foolish disciples of the Pharisees.
You gave up without a fight so that you could have a life of ease.
The fruit of betrayal, no safe streets left to walk upon.
Everything you took for granted, is now gone.
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