Don’t think the world is a tavern – created
For fighting your way, with fists and with nails
To the bar, where you gorge and you guzzle, while others
Swooning from hunger and swallowing spit
Drawing their swollen cramped bellies in tighter.
Oh, don’t think the world is a tavern.
Don’t think the world is a market – created
So the stronger can prey on the tired and weak
And purchase from destitute maidens their shame,
From women, the milk of their breasts, and from men
The marrow of their bones, from the children their smiles
That infrequent guest in the innocent face.
Oh, don’t think the world is a market.
Don’t think the world is a wasteland – created
For wolves and for foxes, for spoils and for booty
The heavens a curtain, so God shall not see!
The mist – so that no one might look at your hands
The wind – just to muffle the sound of wild crying
The earth is to soak up the blood of the victims.
Oh, don’t think the world is a wasteland.
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