Chained to the fence poor mutt
Your life’s trail a patterned well-worn rut
This morning’s sweet breeze beckon you cannot feel
Encircled as you are by his cold collar of steel.
Our strangled thoughts choke our mind
Our ideas die before we can find
Creativity paces hostage to fear and scorn
Dreams of future lay cold stillborn.
Wild untamed free imagination scares our civility
The mob defends against with jackets strait and alchemy
This death began in the instant of our conception
Black sackcloth was set aside the day of our invention.
We accept our reward for conforming compromise
Cheerfully gnaw their biscuits, hiding tears and muffled cries
Finally we shake the chains that choke our throat,
Celebrating with a final lap of our patterned well-worn rut.