Isn’t it a lapse of mankind or simply by reason,
To embrace empty indulgence?
The toil of the many and the impoverished
bleed to fashion artifacts, that serve superfluously at best.
Addicts stuck in their own artificial places
Catching coins, where no human face is.
Worry, abated by the languid fingertip,
Supplemented by the bitter bottle,
While fickle men in high places don’t pay heed.
Like they would need,
They stoop over like Olympians,
Sipping wine like pampered pigs on caviar,
Watching the mortals aid Sisyphus on his never ending quest,
A place where you can’t get no rest.
But it helps having their colluding cronies near,
For what could prevail the ones that have nothing to fear.