Were indifference and suffering to go,
Where'd our sad tradition be?
Drugged to sleep in an asylum, or
Muttering mad at a last bit of breakfast.
It was simply illogical to ignore
As a child, the things it seemed grown-ups should know:
Evil-doing is easy
And sorrow's solution isn't vast.

Thinking of our sad tradition is
Like watching a janitor far past
Retiring age struggle to take out
An employer's trash. His
Chest rasps and his bent spine heaves; the boss begins to shout
"You need to hurry, ******! I wanna get drunk before
Too long, and I need to stop by the store."