The ramshackle palisade walls
Still suggest
There are some on the outside
Still living with less
To be landless, condemned
Not an ox to your name
Not a patch of earth
Your bastard sons could lay claim
To an ounce of the harvest’s
Collectivized hunger
No sickle to stay
The red-handed warmonger
Just fireside chats
With the privileged elite
Of the mechanized master’s
Mass graves of deceit
Still replete with the power
The lions don’t dare
Cede enough to hyenas
To seize their fair share
About the Creator
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More stories from Michael Brandon Marchese and writers in Poets and other communities.
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