*Illustration reference:
Poet W.H. Auden
Clean up this mess, I’ll listen no more
Till you get off your knees and up from the floor.
We’ve roust out the bullies from seats so plum,
They’ve made their bed, let consequence come.
Let the scoreboard glare from overhead,
By these tormentors we will not be led.
Rip blinders from eyes, their hands from our neck
Prop constancy they seek to wreck.
We are the brace, the weight, the grip and hold,
The combatant you have made bold.
The day will come, it won’t be long;
We thought ourselves equal: We were wrong.
Despotic contempt like blood-sucking leech,
A miscalculation, your smug overreach.
You think that placation will save you somehow,
Too late, for no good can come to you now.