Minds Like Toys

Don’t cultivate result, Cease to exist Though for a while, And they’ll love you, They’ll buy you expensive, They’ll cry to beget you, Because you ain’t anything But a toy. Bosses who crave crosses To crucify all competing creativity, On their records is none alive A prudent finger but theirs, Thus we all become fools, Courteous fools, In order to get paid. Men laden with years, Tossed like a cotton grain In a September storm, By a social refuse, A moral fugitive, outcast, lunatic, everything, Disorganised like a baby Excited by a toy bus Is our boss the image. © Muthoka Jacob 10th July 2012. All rights reserved.