A piece of Extract verse for your consideration.
I Want My Money Back
… yet the people lap it up like dehydrated frogs,
feeding greedily on curdled milk
from the withered breast of the clergy.
Putrid fluids that give sickly nourishment
to quench all appetites for healthy cognizance.
I weep for the blind and ignorant masses.
Yet sometimes the mood passes despairingly and I don’t care.
Inevitable consequence of a flawed species
doomed to mournful repetition.
If only the children didn’t suffer.
But then there would be no problem.
So on it goes, the perverse merry-go-round.
The inevitable mourning.
The interminable pain.
The balance of bitter and sweet.