Chained to the fence poor mutt
Your life’s trail a patterned well-worn rut
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
Imagination held hostage to fear and scorn
Dreams of future lay cold stillborn.
Wild untamed free creativity scares our civility
Mobs defend with jackets strait and sorcery
This death began in the instant of our conception
Black sackcloth put aside from the day of our invention.
We accept our reward for conforming compromise
Cheerfully gnaw their biscuits hide our tears and muffled cries
Finally shaking the chains still choking our throat
We celebrate our patterned well-worn rut unbowed.