It’s a Battle Lost…

Put your mind in type tell them your thought,
have a little gripe, I’m sure you won’t get caught.
A Herpes monkey sits with a red faced scowl,
we laugh at a diseased dog’s erratic smile or growl.

It’s the same as a punch drunk boxer
who never threw a fight or towel.
Or the vegetarian rock star
who eats everything that’s fowl.

Thoughts of our future can be so deceiving,
after all it’s not a conscious willed process.
We willingly accept what we are receiving,
never looking or asking for much finesse.

Why have we so many hero’s from our past?
yet this world is such a stinking bloody mess.
Are they the only memories allowed to last,
does not our cerebral mass think under stress?

Have the hero’s fought recognition far to long,
do they put it in a box while waiting for summer.
When they’ll spring to action with a ready song,
won’t that make us mortals feel much glummer.

Help me understand my little vexed conundrum,
maybe then I’ll sleep at last on through till dawn.
I can feel your thought process start to, ho hum,
or could it be the start of a very large yawn.

Never mind my little self same sometime thinkers,
I’m sure you’ve worked your brain into it’s socks.
Remember, we’re a selfish nation of binge drinkers,
while the people with power still wind our clocks.

Could they be clever enough to inject that thought?
using their medium of television and radio as a needle.
Are we floating in space like Bowie’s major astronaut?
all the while watching programmes made by Beedle.