The commissaries run by fate's control
of those who suffer for a show
and those who'd sew
the burden of tempered grow

from intelligence to a soul;
those grasping the concept of
another's woe with wide maws and little know
are quick to imprint the sympathy of sloth,

fast words and little wit, slow mind
with a harrowing heart, and eyes
that freeze with pity at the grind
of youth's mangled cries,

the pains and troubles
are songs for the soul's harp,
decadent misery the rise of rubble
of life's mocking lark,

and given hope of reprieve
in thought at least:
the ones who most receive
the weight in chain-links increase.