What's the Use

Much do I fear this death I see: The doom of our race hangs over me, and you can’t disguise through subtlety, the curse that renders all unfree. What love is pure? What heart is true? You cannot find one, I promise you, that all are immersed in wisdom, new, that judges all by what they do. So are you practical? What’s your use? Show me your skills, lend your excuse, convince me with your clever ruse, that you are worth it, golden goose. For if you cannot make my life, better; If you cannot end my strife, or be a fair and doting wife, then they would say “Fall on your knife!” Worthless, garbage, no good at all, and they won’t mourn one bit your fall. No one will help you when you stall. And no one will answer when you call. Dignity, ha! It all derives, from the products of our lives. Don’t consider that which drives, as worth more than distracted sighs. You’re just a cog in a machine, no matter the polish with which you clean. I mock it all—so base, so mean, there is no place for man to lean, except on transience bound within, the form of services and sin, painting an illusion where we win, cause we can’t stomach where we’ve been.