Turning the Tables
Earth, disguised as scenic postcard
lulls us into a false security,
fauna patiently feigns endangerment,
aromatic blossoms hold us captive,
while we emit nothing
but salt-drenched sweat,
the stink of defeat
disguised as industry.
Wives of Lot, we insist on looking back,
reliving fond memories,
rebuilding Sodom and Gomorrah,
glowing in the sweet perspiration
of a job well done.
Poor saps, we stick to misguided paths,
sleep in Procrustean beds,
wake up to morning's majesty,
resume our lives as talking heads.
It's time to assume the position
coz Nature is ready to kick our asses.
So, we'll cut her out like a cancer
hedging our bets, sheering off our noses
in spite of facing extinction,
"Oh, baby, was it good for you?"
You think it's funny now, just wait -
You'll look for more than splendour in the grass,
want more than desire under the elms.
As pesky guests who've overstayed their welcome
and left the rooms a mess,
we might soon find
Mother Nature has changed the locks,
all our stuff piled in one big heap
on the edge of nowhere.