Aww, look at the poor pious boy shake his head
in agreement with the benevolent
treatment of his master: the day-old bread,
the fattiest part, and a bloodline rent:
Have I been this boy? Yes, but not by choice;
and though my blood flows ripped as if rock splits
the current, I balk at the stream, rejoice
when the rapids repair to stagnant pits:
You can call it rebellious, uppity
that I do want these systems to perish:
business, history, government, letters,
these cunningly warlike modes of "merit":
Will I die in the process? Probably;
The fact that I wrote this is killing me.
urbansonnets 