Anger forged poetical forms of flipping the bird
a smith that uses hot-tempered words
that says fuck the crows that attack those unheard
that don't follow the crow'ded herds
the dead feasters, that passed away anything of self to learn
no soul to urn, nothing earned, as body's burned.
The death of free speech often comes from the meek
as they care more about their reps, as their obviously feeling weak
for God doesn't fear the Devil or his heat
he gave us freewill to choose to where we retreat
but how can we choose a door when the halls are just walls
covered with concrete with blankets on the floor for the poor
while they enlarge their spreadsheets, that hide behind law
for how can we beat the odds when we can't even break even
then turn around and bitch slap Oliver for asking for more
gruel from the cruel that continues to play with war
a deathly reward to silence the bored
that voice that the game of life is more then we can afford
how can we be right when we can't write what's freely abhorred
or adored, for every positive has a negative and every negative has a cause
for righteous applause, for who knows what the future has in store
or who will end up wielding the molten words poured into swords
for interpretation is liberation a freedom to be explored
not something torn by the scorned
that saw what they had a right to see but not complete to see
completely a deadly drawn thorn
for it's just interpretation, artistically born.