I thought for perhaps too long about
A land atop a sweet small round-
Couldn’t be true. How could it be?
Who bore that fruit- the drooping tree-?
They guard the garden from raids in night,
They keep their stomachs full and tight-
They slam the gaited parish doors
where ermined diocese plan their wars,
They never see us on the ground-
For in paradise, we make no sound
But it is us-
The tangerine menagerie,
built soundly on a fallacy-
That work and maybe, mostly men-
Could right the world of wrong again.
With glee upon assuming grace
They take throne amongst their holy race.
And from on high they throw their crumbs-
To wind and wave and starving moms
who beat the earth beneath their palms
and have naught but bitter peels for alms,
Who in due time, will plant that single seed of wrongs.