Slaves To Time

How many days are there, in our all consuming weeks Not enough, too many, perhaps we need a little tweak For people that slave hard, days don’t require a name There just continuities of time, without a rhyme or aim Earth just keeps spinning, and reality couldn’t care less Moon hangs on in there, apparently not out of interest Sun is a big magnet, holding our solar system together Milky Way spirals a black hole, without any given effort Life the only interested party, stands watching the clock Remainder of the universe, doesn’t bother taking stock God on the other hand, sees everything happen at once Satan can pop up anytime, conjuring his cunning stunts Ridiculous as this seems, our reality is the human mind All is relative to the observer, good, bad, average, kind Time’s definitely the driver, of linear inexorable wonder Without its fatal effect, we’re dead in perpetual slumber So how do we tweak our days, make them work in favor Stop bearing progeny into poverty, for fodder and labor My dog has it better, I’m disgusted to be brutally honest The absolute insanity, unfeasible populations among us This cycle must be broken, everyone deserving of a bite Why do you bear ten children, unable to afford them life Seven days a week, three hundred and sixty five, a year Scavenging for tomorrow, furthering their slavery career By David Kavanagh