We long to breathe pure air and drink sweet water,
Cook and warm by clean fire, and eat good tucker.
There was a time the sacred elements spoke of god,
But we forgot that language with a passing nod.
We are fluent now with digital-techno speak,
And the natural man is a rare and bloody freak.
All our needs and wants are now wrapped in plastic,
To package and promote what makes the mind spastic.
Our thinking is like fireworks exploding in a room:
Full of weird sulfurous color celebrating doom.
Big Fist is pleased with our huge corporate success;
The few are filthy rich and the rest full of distress.
Darvish remembers the new-ancient remedy,
Of how God’s name turns great pain into comedy!