Tired of grabbing more
—generations of monstrous desire,
a European genetics
that’s set the whole world on fire.
In my lifetime,
it probably won’t be quenched,
but I can’t teach my son
to gobble up endless, empty gain;
thereby forever hobble up to pain,
therein wobble to shallow, barren fame.
Thinking he must always be better,
that over others he must make the grade.
Nah, I won’t confine him to that ugly fetter.
To banks and conglomerates—he won’t be no maid.
Good politicians—these days ain’t no such thing.
I’d rather be your brother than worshipped as a king.
I hope my boy finds family more than boast of wealth,
else he’d be like me—a prisoner in this work week hell.
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