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wings of wax and wicker
Down in the valley
the broken and belabored
huddle hopeless as they scribble and scribe
as wings of wax and wicker
flutter foreword from the furrow
and terrorize the troubled tribe
and in the factory the foreman
and the owner raid the storeroom
leaving nothing but their souls inside
even the masters are slaves to it
even the masters are slaves
if you listen to the language
it describes to you the damage
of being blinded by the Blitzkrieg crowd
and if you walk with your own mission
rather than the one conditioned
you’ll never have to speak your mind out loud
just remember all your hours
to consider ye the flowers
blooming wild on the top of the hill
and consider ye the sparrow
who bereft of bow and arrow
feasts to fatness without working a mill
even the masters are slaves to it
even the masters are slaves
