Ode to the Foolish Few


Good morning, I bid you.
The knight's gone, the day's new.
Take a moment, come down
From your moral high-ground.
A face is a mask, friend;
To whence does it extend?
Whilst you hold to good's truths,
Do you think your friends do?

You preach of a nice world,
No blows thrown, no words hurled,
Yet each place that you go
And each seed that you sew,
Your neighbour will unmake.
He sees me. For hate's sake
His eyes mist, his lips curled.
His prejudice unfurled.

How constant's your neighbour?
How much does he savour
His wife? You lay yours down
And grunt. She makes fake sounds.
As she snores, the bed shakes,
Yet next door your friend takes
The mistress you pray for.
They scream out love's labour.

The veneer of goodness
Is peeling like wood, less
The strength of a firm tree.
Good's roots wither feebly.
But still you would pretend
Your City serves Good's ends.
Delude yourself. Rat. Quest
Whilst Good breathes its last breaths.

FIN


Penned by my hand on the 16th of Valnuary, in the year 400 AF.