Ponderous wondrous clichés of the sick
The manifesto built via a clamorous trick
Pouches that bear nothing and wombs that go stale
A life that turns vile is a life that’s out for sale
A creakish freakish naivety of the ones who chose to mute
A mono tonic gibberish billowing from the ant’s lute
Of shops that sell a farce, a salesman that but loots
And religious padres who pay nothing, except for empty
hoots
A time of crime- of lost dime and broken rhyme
Yet carries this poem some rhythm, chooses to forego mime
The lips are tied albeit, but fingers are what run amok
The clock, welcomes the End, with a pacey strut of tick
tock.
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