It’s a wash no one wishes on anyone’s world
When within one’s right mind there is nothing to see
But full drawers of clean laundry. Do Not take a breath
As the smell of this cleanliness may cause one’s death.
Citizens who of left mind just want to be free.
What has been convoluted must then be unfurled.
Many billions of children at play in their rooms
After many an eon have left earth a mess.
We are not home alone, as our mother is here
Yet our father is elsewhere, not meant to be near.
We’re hard pressed to invent him with any success
And the unending filthy wash cycle resumes.
As the traitor species, we’ve made ourselves awash
In our own filth and grime. But we are like the child
Who attends not to discipline. We’ve no concern
But for needs of the moment. What then can we learn?
And can our past activity be reconciled?
As we look at our laundry we’ll lose our panache.