The void

Proletariat customs within the royal courtyard.
Basket-woven skies,
Man’s unbetraying lies,
Her voluptuous thighs,
And the reason for modern businessamn’s ties,
All breathing from the same artery
For the need of artillery,
Tilling the art?
Donkey fart!
It’s all about profit
And credibility through inredulous means.
The Jacuzzi is boiling,
And we are waiting on the edges,
Trying to slowly dip out feet in,
Burnung from the steaming undergroung
Beneath our streets.
Arthritis struck minds of today
And claim it’s unavoidable,
Shall we ask the void?

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