I felt this primal urge
This trance-like instinct
To set things right
In case I have to leave
Move on, so to speak
So
I took my jaundiced eye
And rolled it from corner to corner
Of this, my situation
And I felt so very small and hard
Lost in largeness
For cynicism is a tight thing
Which allows little movement
A strange kind of chastity
And then, you see
Changes
Honesty demanded that I see more
Grow, so to speak
And oh, my poor sore eyes
See how the children starve
All over this bitter world
This bitter, sickened world
And cynicism did this
Through the slack hands of millions
Who still refuse to believe
That things can be changed
By Phil Roberts