We must, each, protect our own:
- tis' one thing I've been shown.
For - thee kings an' queens shall not;
- we are but animals, caught, in their kingdom
- an' they'll, gladly, send out firing squads
- should we speak out o' our lack o' freedom.

He staggers, so, slow down a lonesome road
- in El Dorado: the only home he'd ever known.
He attempts to grasp some truth, alone, in the street
- but winds up hearing, only, his rambling feet
- and those coyotes who'll cry t'ward the sky,
- t'wards that waning moon: resting, oh, so high.
Letting out a sigh, he cannot comprehend why
- all o' these citizens, ever, so faithfully comply
- to thee system o' people who're, oh, so sly
- an' would love to see us all bleed out an' die
- if it gets them a new sports car or a blue silk tie.
Tis' a kind o' world to make people lay down an' cry.

A fierce an' blusterous wind blows 'round the snow;
- bringing with it - to many a-men : great woes.
It does, so, bring sorrow - an' it's hard to swallow :
- that bone-chilling, brisk breeze out o' thee west.
It blows in, determinedly, - as if it is on a quest;
- a bitter journey putting many a-men to the test.

Nay- there'll be no hunting, nor gathering, today;
- guess all we can do now : ration thee food an' pray.

This Earth rotates so, very, fast
- an' for some : it's a total blast.
Though, for some : it's complete hell -
- being locked up on this spherical dwell-
-ing. Yes! To some, this world does sting;
- an' - sorrow, to some : it sure does bring.
Even still, though, Earth spins circles 'round the Sun
- and any sort o' closure is, barely, little to none.

None o' us could, ever, really know,
- just exactly, where each o' us go
- when all o' the bright lights go dim  
- an' our bodies are, suddenly, limp.
Do we, all, get to see some grand being
- when we cease to continue breathing;
- or- does it all, simply, turn to dark black
- with no chance o' us ever getting back?
"Should we find ourselves six feet under
- or, up, high above the thunder?" I wonder.
Do our souls elevate to some magical space
- or do we, all, lie still in our boxes with grace?
We might not ever know the, exact, truth
- but, even still, the trees - they bear lively fruit
- an' the Earth still spins round' the Sun..
An' - for now, e'rything seems to be calm.

Most all ancient poems will find new homes :
- rewritten in the scribblers of scribes
- who've never read them in their lives.

Expect thee worst & hope for the best;
- don't trouble your mind with all o' the rest
- of the details. Ya' see? Even the slowest of snails
- will infiltrate the deceased rabbit's den-
- eventually.