The Republic with ten thousand eyes
has no twenty twenty vision to call their owns
for in blinded minds frolics deluded trysts
in parlour dreams of branded herds in moans

Soiled yarns beseeches the gaping yawns
market full of dullards selling freshly baked air
from basements of handed down words for prawns
the echoes of fooled multitudes in laissez faire

So we see not the trees for the woodlands
why splinter brackens when we can toss the caber
for more brawn than sense we inherently stand
in hogwash and flinging mud we find our labour