Sometimes only faith makes sense,
The soul tires, sat on the fence,
Balancing on the swaying timbers,
Dug into the dying cinders.
When the trope du jour is worn
Out, when recall that we were born
Comes, cast around a little more
In this wicked world, start searching for
A new design, another one
To shade the screeching soulless sun.
While on the sun, a modern trend
Yet all too old, the welcome end
Of time, shall serve as our device,
To inculpate all human vice.
Frack off! Cease digging coal by stealth,
Lights out – the bell for greed has rung
So burn that cash, then burn that dung.