I am beset by boorish, bloated, behemoths
who broadside benevolent busboys by the boatload
I do not pause to stop and stare
With indifference and despair
Do I circumnavigate an indifferent globe

I am surrounded by salacious supplementals
who  stand silently still in streaming sunlight
I do not return their glare
I run my hands through thinning hair
and wince at ignorance made flesh

I am besieged by bracingly belligerent bumblers,
The kind of verbal tumblers who fail to jump through hoops,
These self-proclaimed acrobats, put to shame by pussycats
All too often follow circuitous routes
these pitiful proletarian ponderers, as little more than wanderers
On a plane that reaches no destination
They do daily buy their ticket, but to me it's just not cricket
For we are here and then we die, go to the ground not to the sky
and now I lay me down to sleep, in a wooden box that wasn't cheap
and all the while the bleating sheep hear no-one but themselves