The planet a tool rich man's stool,
But we the colorful die.
The middling and the poor inbreds,
No one to hear our cry.
We have no god or religion,
When in flood we're washed away.
Our heads just numbers in the mud,
The leaders obfuscate what they say.
A hundred a thousand or a million,
But we'll be the ones dying alone.
Rotting in some awful way,
Buried deep hugging our phone.
No one to do anything for us,
We're living a deadly life.
Fools rushing for hollow goals,
Else tamed with a bleeding knife.
Searing fear raw cowering awe,
Grim death's grimy grimace.
Sick made sicker in their minds,
Haunting the greedy face.
A permanent post-orgasmic apathy,
A refraction set in stone.
Men and women after images,
Their love flickering on a phone.
Dopamine drive a city hive,
Of rabid impulsive speed.
High on everything unnatural,
No one now pays any heed.
Just a matter of time then,
For our miserably designed scope.
We are outdone by our lies,
Civilizations trap in overused trope.
Or in the tangible, in the wind and rain,
Headwinds fierce on the face.
It's a new hello to an apocalypse,
Just slime on a rock's surface.
Just that and a very thin film,
And ruled by tribal voodoo.
Poor or kings and queens, in-betweens,
Feces flushed in the cosmic loo.
