They could’ve meant well, no?
Even the profiteering prophets and diabolical deceivers
Swaying in sequential sequins before their loyal believers
Like the ones loving you to death?
Squashed voluntarily under their opposable thumbs
Swaying in rote rhythm to their incessant drums
Who teaches us to discern them?
Meddlers in men’s minds
Always claiming all is fine
What are the sins of the father?
The pedantic priests and sycophantic sophists
Bathing us perpetually in their poisoned mists
Are there greater deceivers than these . . .
Or are they merely
Gypsies, tramps and thieves?
That aging Aquarian troupe forever brandishing
Usurping, coveting, flagrantly micro-managing
The magical staff of Hermes?
