WITHOUT A PLAN
(TO THEIR KNEES)
To their knees the fell men bent
Their manhood sold, their courage spent
To herd, en masse, their movements ran
For of them all, the same demand
That everyone should bow and scrape
To each other, no escape
No Rising High, no better god
Submission’s slave and worldly shod
Their only prayer to king or queen
The present age their only dream
Out of their mouths come feckless oaths
From their hands spring deeds to loathe
No shame, no guilt, and no reform
Repentance laboured, and stillborn
Deceit a crown for cunning heads
Their dawn as dark as creeping dread
Their craft disguised, but inward bred
Their soul’s surmise, that “God is Dead”
To be replaced with urbane art
The bane cum blessing, bitter hearts
Society their altared grave
To seize and offer what they gave
Back to themselves while it will last
Though of rot their bid is cast
For all that man can build and sow
He cannot his redemption grow
He thinks him “Wise Sophisticate”
To lure on Good, himself the bait
He does not know he stinks of Death
To Doom he’s drawn, his own bequest, and
The Physic True who could arrest
Who’d Cure decay within his breast, why
What self-wise man has any truck
With God or Savior when to luck
He trusts his Fortune, built by hand, his
Only Truth that man is man –
That god within – without a Plan.
Wyrdwend 