massaging the egos of spent sages ageing counselors sing like broken records
encircling the same mountain movement with no direction a generation wonders in the wilderness
fourty and four years disfigured worn to a frazzle by prodigal rulers
looting gambling bigots taking the walk of shame
slowly heating the pan the frogs swim dancing the macabre dance we are not better than our fathers
slaves lower species eating crumbs from the master’s table
salivating dogs grateful for the dainty morsel
but over the horizon a new dawn breaks
a people crushed and forsaken rise from the mire of shame
beyond this crest a small but potent army standing tall
