Purveyor of time,
do you not singe with regret
at stockpiled bounty
in the face of hunger?
Purveyor of time,
do you not cower in disbelief
at good men drowned
by waves of red tape?
Purveyor of time,
when did love become a nuptial contract
and beauty skin-deep?
When did purple become fuscia and salad organic quinoa?
When did assholes become heroes
by spinning lies as truth,
spraying their homegrown feces
with cheap Giorgio Armani cologne?
The Bird's Song 