When ingenuity and a sense of justice fail
Slips into miasma of familiarity and comfort
To diminish progress for a thousand years
Or that progress stifle and shall never reappear
Still birthed by our ancient traditions of greed
Till we are fashioned futile indentured shadows
Puppet men stringing bow from empty quiver
And love has all but left the world for me
Then (only then) will I cry the world is unfair