By Busy Brain
The town is laden up with tiny thorns,
And masses’ food turned from candy meal to hard-corns.
Famish scents has littered our slippery floor,
And pangs keep knocking highly at every door.
Word of our own has given us a sour change,
The trusted ageing tree has reached menopause to give juicy orange.
Word of our own has caused the reek wreck-dowdy damage;
Alas, our known messiah kept us in a thick bondage.
Oh, tell the ageing tree not to blow its wind for the second time,
Because it produces hot breeze and gives bad clime.
Word of our own has summoned us a change by force,
And it forces us to call for immediate divorce.
Oh, the rain has come to replenish our milky soil,
But, our blunt metallic tools kept us in severe toil.
Word of our own has given us a weak change,
And the price of goods mount hill on higher range.
If word of our own wants change as required
Pardon, this change is really far from what to admired