Written by: Keith Bickerstaffe

Part of the denominator,
extraordinary matters level off
and find the lowest trough.
So-called excellence will
joust with the buffooner,
and they are wrestling still.

In days of yore the seer
would proclaim the truth, 
accepted by the old, the youth,
whereas for now the spirits mill,  
are we shackled, are we freer,
hungry now our mouths to fill?

What price for surety?
the prophet's exclamation gone to dust,
while totems crumble, metals turn to rust,
we try to compromise, a bitter pill
for those who crave acerbity
and swear our bliss to spill.

Were we to strike good earth,
avoid all roiling undulation,
seek and hold a firm foundation,
and ascend the highest hill,
then would excellence be realised for all its worth, 
and our hopes and dreams we would fulfill!