We dreamed that we’d make it to
parliament on an early Monday.
Instead, we barely made it
to the corner of the street.

We passed our neighbors,
who watered their lawns,
and looked onto us
with the hope of go forth.

Go forth, youth,
and conquer them all.
Hold, in this jar,
my dreams, and ambitions,

because if they remain in this body
they surely will perish. These dreams
are hot potatoes, fried by the French.
Passed on. Or like musical chairs,

the game that taught scarcity
to kids who had too many chairs
to spare and music

that wouldn’t just play.

They’d pause it, and we’d rush to our seats.
And one and another
would fight for what’s theirs.
Then one would take seat,
the other one, beat,
would join in the crowd of have-nots.

Have nots, have you forgot?
A lesson as old as time.
That if you’re too slow,
to stop on a dime, then music will start
and you’ll be left behind.

Parliament doesn’t want,
those who can’t move to the rhythm
anticipate stops,
and ruthlessly,
harsh, I mean,
shove their way to the top.

So, sit and observe,
as Democracy erred,
we voted to somehow avoid the preferred,
but they voted amongst themselves, right?

They said who had rights,
we’d put up a fight,
they’d make us go vote
at the end of the night.

Well, we’re tired, you see.
Tired, you see. Tired,
and sleepy, to tired to be
there at the ballots voting to be free

Ah, but this story is about the cats,
who look out the window, at the world on tv.