Congenital Irritability

From father to son, a critically caustic tongue

not political, he puts on no face

what furrows the brow sunup to sundown

this unrighteous pachydermal race.

Row follows row, claiming none are in tow

burlesquing their plebeian plight

act and react to fiction or fact

rich/poor, black/white, day and night.

A world weaning somewhere between

lacklustre living and lolling along

“Think for yourselves!” don’t ring any bells

just the maxim of – “Don’t tell me I’m wrong!”

The point I suppose (to lead by the nose)

which fits nicely with their motif

most of the planet, with brains made of granite

plays poker daily with their beliefs.

Max S.