What dark afflictions drive us—gifted, cursed
With what no other animals possess?
I used to think religion was the worst
Disease dementing us—pustular abscess!
But advertising proved a better bet.
We could not live, it seems, without that stuff—
The top tier cars, the fashion, mounting debt—
Stunned—unable to understand enough.
But now I know the source of all our grief,
The origin of humankind’s excess,
The root of greed, the sap of all belief—
Ambition—foul plague—virulent distress.
Sufficient warmth and sustenance, you’d think—
A bit of sex to propagate the race—
Would generate content, avoid the brink
Of murderous and melancholy fate.
Ambition won’t allow it, gives up peace,
Serenity, for strife without surcease.
(6/11/11)