What a waste is a fool with power desperate for a thought
The bite of fools’ sound bites foolish notes of naught
Nothing is the price of fools with power
It buys you less and leaves you sour
Like a weed growing out from ‘neath the eves
So starved for light it crowds the others’ leaves
Just so ideas held hostage struggle languish
Midst their vapid weakling speckled grayish
Each a torturer one day at judgment will they say?
Their answer for their waste will simply be they cannot repay.