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.
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