The proof we are doomed echoes in the claim,
That ‘we can do no more; we need a wiped-clean zero’.
No fix and make do;
Forgetting each word our elders taught.
Only brand spanking new;
Even our fucking quirks are bought.
How do you measure the pain of a world tearing itself inside out?
And how would you grieve the loss of such humbling bounty?
How can one seek solace in a time obscure from joy?
How does one take pleasure from a cruel, bloody swindle?
There they’ll be;
What’s left of our brutal, cursed progeny…
Picking the meat,
From the bones of freshly dead relatives…
Oh! we’d better howl, laughing!
Oh! We’d better enjoy, loudly,
All that we have and all we have done,
For when they listen, we’d better pray,
That our children,
Hear our echoes beg forgiveness,
And offer hope…
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