The stock house of beauty has many feet clamouring
Youth is bewitched by a carnal wandering
Who cares about the sacred? We live with the profane
This valediction to morality happens time and again
The cindering of catechism to the rose of a ruse
Character’s fission is only every day’s news
Sludgy minds sleep in beds of lust
Invigorated by titillation. Whose God do we trust?
Adulthood’s winter counts on meaningless harvests
A rampage, a conquest, is pride at zest
Our wardrobes seem to have blackened mirrors
when the fabric of the soul rips in horror
Predators don’t think they are all the poorer
when there seems no countdown to vandalising a flower
A choice of freedom is to be enslaved
And have conscience’s reason meet its grave
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