(5) Le Bog (1/7)

“It’s not my job to be the world’s critic.” Jane McGonical

Once upon a time
A great city rose from a marsh.
The men who got things going
Weren’t perfect, but they had the right idea.
Somehow their limited minds,
Where social constructs were concerned,
Gave rise to hope
That all men were, indeed, created equal.

Wherever politics are played,
Players will surely try to game the system.
This city, with its patriotic symbolism,
Monuments to morality, and
Gastric reflux and the thought of compromise
Has fallen into the quagmire of hubris
With little voices speaking plenty of ishk,
Both the evil and unlucky varieties.

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