Even a wasteland has open space
for the green shoots of growing hope and the taproot of the human race But the wasteland's the old-timer's trope for our creation of modern despair we must hang ourselves on a new rope Today we slink from our mother's lair into a world of heaped detritus lost and alone in a place of no prayer Daily we drown in the oozing pus puddles of piss create quicksand that binds unlucky victims who can only cuss As children we play amongst the molding minds and rotten writings of our forebearers spurning wisdom for half-eaten rinds Darwin's dogmas masquerade as our teachers in a world where rulers are soon toppled and safety resides with the loners Comments are closed.
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