Nothing For Something

Nothing for Something What filled your footsteps cannot Fill mine, yes, a wave does not Break twice, but do you think I too have not risen when lured By the hopes of vacant promises; inured The rage of empty shelves? “Free beer tomorrow”, the Pols perennial tout, "We’ll fill your still-empty mugs with stout, Then charge it to some other sucker’s tab." Like poachers back to the same pond Each season for the harvest, your bond For the count is assumed. Do you not see their willful blind, The guns swinging upward to find Your range? How many generations will comply Before just one dares to deny The users’ their presumption? That fire raging from the double cross Can cleave the element from the dross And emancipate your art. Copyright Paul M Thomson 2020