The pitter-patter of hasty feet on warm concrete sings a sullen song,
clumsy and offbeat,
on days new and old, concerns raised like the sky are settled upon resolute grounds like leaves of peace,
and seconds seat not petulant but charmed by mused concessions of thought.
Perhaps obedience with alacrity is far long upon embrace,
Perhaps we need some anarchy,
Our continuous suns rise above suitable philosophies of priceable wisdom walking like stolen togas and on cold days I could swear we’re nerds building an ark,
but this ship is made not of wood but paper and files,
so it could sink fancier than a titanic for there is no apparent flood but a cash windfall for the big man in the corner office.
Perhaps ignorance is kin to innocence,
Perhaps anarchy is our sin,
And roll we captain this ship to a flood of profit in concert with our dreams.