The Rules

They think the rules are different,
they’re the same now as they ever were,
changed to protect the guilty,
who always had the key,
wedged tight between
hemorrhoid cheeks,
those who had the bread,
and we,
the rabble rousing rebels,
left to eat what was slathered between
the wonder slices.

If I can’t win, I don’t want to play.

You can take all your high opinions
and hide them forever
on the same chain
as the proverbial key,
a stifled blockage
that when finally handed down
from that hallowed court,
will have the proctors hands
seared clean,
with rock hard diamonds,
while in our socks
they’ll still be
bits of coal.

And on our heads
a carved
scarlet “I”
them thinking that
we’re too interested
in the “Id,”
we thinking
that we’re too
“Intelligent”
to play with lies.