Chained to the fence poor mutt
Your life’s trail a patterned well-worn rut
This morning’s sweet breeze beckon you could not feel
Encircled as you are by his cold collar of steel.
Our strangled thoughts choke our mind
Our ideas die before we can find
Creativity paces imprisoned by fearful scorn
Dreams of future lay cold stillborn.
Wild untamed free imagination scares our civility
The mob defends against with jackets strait and alchemy
This death began in the instant of our conception
Black sackcloth was set aside the day of our invention.
We accepted our reward for conforming compromise
Cheerfully gnawed their biscuits, hiding tears and muffled cries.