Just a huge vicious mouth that forces a donation,
hence those hungry jaws you only affectionately refer to,
where strikes by its telling fangs don’t count,
as it remains very comfortably fed because we lost the vote.
We teach our kids from both slobbering corners,
then wonder in vain as they drift into clashing stances,
delivering gross nourishment with one hand,
and taking away what’s been wisely stored for emergencies.
Nothing outlandish inside my official supposition,
more like savagely wrenching our doors and windows,
catching us in showers dropping to the floor,
without a trusting ambulance soon on arrival since it’s too late.
Try God on ice over that bubbling keg of libation,
now reaching for your own throat as well as anybody’s,
concerning the old subjects always avoided,
perpetually driving us at fiery odds for the sake of foolish beliefs.
You gotta admit it when they’re across your back,
legs firmly wrapping your weary chest to squeeze and kick,
better heed to this master or lose your head,
physically and of course mentally choking within its artful grasp.
Simply against those people to hinge us all closer,
irreconcilably divided along a bitter history neither lived,
yet imagined as if it really occurred somehow,
leaving each grieving camp to ludicrously interpret the struggle.
Sharwrong's Song 