Another work week's come to an end
And I sit alone at home, no friend
To talk to or laugh with, at least not for now,
But I think I perhaps ought not laugh, anyhow,
Given the state of the nation this week
And the way the world looks askance at each peek
Into the innards of this two-ocean land,
At each revelation of the still heavy hand
That grasps at the throats of the people held long
In bondage, chokes them, still demands song
And dance from those people, then rebukes their "play"
By calling them lazy who work not each day--
But calling them worse when they work across hours
And are not at home to tend to the flowers
Planted in nights between sheets--or, worse yes,
Stopping them reaching their homes, or next breaths.