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Weakened by the grip
of a fever dream called State
I will not bend the knee
to petty men's tired fate
the retread tireless arrogance
of simple machinations
conscribed and contrived
to all of us, prostrate.

neither beg nor bow no more
nor grovel will I ounce proclaim
the greatness of the bureaucrats
or craven mens scheming doubts
to shameless manipulate all circumstances
to their ill-gotten gain

whatever half-sincere ploys
at feigned vain olive branches
trample them under foot
and make olive oil in the trampling
to anoint kings your own
cutting branches from the grasping kudzu
of lesser men's maniacal ambitions
If wishes were horses, if warhorses, wishes.

A sea of clambering clamoring ladder climbers
As if ascent from inundated babylon
No ark to save them but the people they step on.
Let em all drown below.

Let the walls to fall down upon their own inferno
Sodom, Gomorrah, Jericho.
The storm, the flood, derecho.

The world stops when we say No.