Off-Beat Poetry

Don’t you think
That it’s a sign of the times,
The flow of this rhyme,
As we’re pushed to the brink
Of civilization
That young souls
Both bought and sold
Fight for the chance
To be their own man
In a part of the world
Where the words of one
Outweigh the cries of many

And still they persist
Like a glorious infection
Spreading through the worn
Ligaments of oppression and
On borrowed time
The smoking barrels
Aimed at their own
Neighbors and sons
A gruesome display
Of the fall of Man

And here we are
Squabbling chickens
Afraid to lose their coop
Pointing crooked fingers
But none are willing,
Too many problems
To even try to fix
And betwixt my ears
A certain bell tolls
And I can’t help but notice
Which are the people
Who love their land and
Their lives enough to
Stand up and shout
FUCK THE MAN

The last trigger pulled
Leaves young and old
In a sweetened haze
At least we went
Down swinging

MSBQ