Sometimes I write poetry.

400 YEARS.

400 years, Of playing by your rules. But when will freedom come? So many times, it’s been declared – So when now, will it come? The keys to their chains, they say, Were welded by your fire – But do not break them off, you say – For those who wrote the rules still rule the game.

But it’s been 400 years, by now, Of playing by their rules – The game is rigged, it’s always been – But still the word is wait. Wait until enough patient talks, Have melted enough open hearts – Explain, protest, and fill the square But never, never interfere – With the rules as they’ve been writ – In the end, they promise: they’ll get you out of this.

But it’s been 400 years, by now, And still my loved ones wait. I won’t look on while more and more, Gain entrance at the pearly gates. Because it’s been 400 YEARS, by now, And the rules have never changed; I think I’m done, with this thankless faith – And so, say loudly, FUCK the game.