What a curse, our wherewithal
To fathom, They, with bane and gall
Play with lives as if mere trifle
Plant the seed, that aims to stifle
Any chance of world at peace
To starve as well as bloat with feast
To grant the most defining trait
Capacity to loathe and hate
Be boundless as the will to love
What jokester lounges far above
Does knockabout with bare a glance
Will throw us crumbs of whim and chance
Then cries to minions kneel and pray
Be thankful we may wake each day
Though even there’s no guarantee
We’re well thought of, begrudgingly
When jerks around the lines of scrimmage
Smirk at thought we’re made in image
By a spirit so self-serving
Bestowed upon us undeserving