Sage of the hills above the township
gently watches the world below
Perched on a rock where wind blows lightly
whisks his hair in the pale moon's glow
Songs of a simpler yesterday
stream from his peaceful soul
southing eternal lull
heart, mind and body whole
Swarms fill the streets in loud confusion
Swindlers beckon us to consume
Trite entertainment, thrills and comfort
spirits locked in a plastic tomb
Cheap sacred texts and microwaves
opulence casting stones
broken malnourished bones
forsaken mothers moan
Striking is the fact that those said to be sane
live unbridled madness, no one to restrain them
while our greatest prophets wind up being shamed
backed into dark corners far from where we need them
Sanctified illusion, sinister design
Maniacs rejoice in vanity
licensed to provoke calamity
happy to destroy humanity