There’s a human child in discomfort
as if they’re cutting his heart out.
No-one takes any notice
of the all the ongoing anguish.
We hear it whining, whimpering, screaming.
We could just free him.
But this is too much fuss,
people, what is wrong with us?
Bla, bla, bla, bla, bla …
And they all lied happily ever after.
Ant the moral of this story:
This tale knows no morals sadly!
Polar, bear, heavy, tar, ocean without motion,
exploited, disjointed, the bell has sounded
the twelve the five the before, the door
the fool, the owl, the mirror, the face
the two, the schizo and the phrenia
I saw many a silent man there be
down in the misty valley free.
Full of hate and looks of scorn,
souls brimmed full with bitter tears,
stolen from their midst forlorn
I am the puppeteer, life is my stage
sage penance is my piece,
I please the world with fantasies and reveries,
I free, I am the scream – behind the facade,
I play the ballade
A city, a street, a spot,
a driven man and cheering mob.
Stoned, spat upon, boundless scorn,
a loud cry and blood dropping from a thorn.
The king’s crown, a wreath of hurt
Academy and allergy, bureaucracy
and blasphemy and dynasty see
emboli, the energy of the industry,
a great infamy, the irony
the infantry and kids‘ pornography
ABC and math multiplication,
in the morning early at eight to robots we are made.
Knowledge only from second-hand,
jammed and sent out of the door,
an entry for eternity, the time can’t heal those wounds still sore
The soul cries of hurt,
full of hate and scorn,
deep in the humans’ heart
is a stinging thorn!