Classic Poem

In the absolute
birds always sing
but in the corporate board room
the men in grey are at the wheel. . . .
for the planet. . . .
steel nerves. . . .
the government running
from a bad public image
into the aleatory
with a cocked missile,
one hand holding
on to its balls,
the other pleading
for a gradualist approach

The people look out for themselves
(no change there).