All the Hemingways, Frosts, and Angelous are dead
Yet we are all destined to be them, a delusion of the head
The foundations to be shaken were already taken down
By hands and unheard voices mistaken
Of the downtrodden, low-down found out
To be rotten, begotten of times and rhymes designed
To ride the fine lines dividing divines
As mines and sight lines blow us all sky high
Sly high in the driver seat, Congress
Congregation of the heat and conquest
Highest bidders, shills, and ancient acquitters
Out plotting our demises and compromises
Where power lies in the lies of their flawed designs
And the ties that tie us down in the mines
Of dark and darker ignorant times
When art is dead, world on its head
And I sit here and spin my rhymes . . .