By Andrew R. Duckworth
Look at that spoiled child,
Clamoring for chains,
Shackles seeming mild
In the immature brain,
Because they can’t handle thought
That is not their own,
Not the formula they bought,
Not the narratives they’ve sown.
With all the issues of the day,
Be them war, hunger, or famine,
Spoiled children stack their tray
With only what they wish to examine.
Soon, they have you fettered as well,
Before you know it, below the knee,
And, before you’re able to tell,
You’re only free to a degree.