By all means, Mr. Man,
Wear your paper suits.
You have corrupted a
Face the notes are black.
I go for the symbolic,
It is my language;
Like a chirping bird
We may be sparrows to
Your sky scraping hawk
But we have a mountain
Perch with collective shrieks.
And you, Mr. Man, you
Have a nest of money
In your concrete churches
Where you are comfortable.
So relax, Mr Man, you
Still have your briefcase shields.
But one day your paper suits
Will be our kindling.