Crown jewels wail orders in their claws,
striking costly smokeless blinding fires,
no one handles much past our cluttered altars.
Blurred signals bound in dirty coupled piles,
stage tug of wars across efficient lit programs,
stamped until there aren’t any more disagreements.
Glittering armor gamble in ferocious clashes,
mauling soaring canyons over their playfield,
barely recognizing any of these fanciful teams.
Witness a drunken staff of foolish grand elders,
holding the rest at bay through long arid years,
because they surmised the rules needed to change.
Most defenders roll over now as fresh enemies,
claiming allegiance among other swaddling protesters,
where the highly profitable fun comfortably resides.
Now touting brash wreaking as a means of support,
pressing debasement with their acts of boiling steam,
leaving dragged muddied craters of shouting matches.
A rising short list attempts a months long draft,
armed with angry goodwill and open determination,
vowing to fatally expose these filthy garish clans.
Toes froze and eventually broke off in their mid-step,
trying to thumb the cynical public’s fraudulent pressure,
bringing an end to our popcorn and chocolate caramels.
Sharwrong's Song 