is far afield of degradation—

any soul what calls them indivisible union

is part and parcel to a different communion—

no, you should not call it vice

if its only purpose is to excise

English: a hand holding unidentified white pills

(Photo Credit: Wikipedia)

because, sweet child, that pill

may look back at you like some foul shill

but if we’re all dying in leagues

that intrigue will only lead to grim fatigue

and in the dying—we’ve all done it—

would you not ask for every trick or wit

in the hopes that one might cry sanctuary

salvation from death’s actuary?

Oh, you’re a noble crusader

you are, you wall, you sacrificial trader

willing to give all for some

but none for your own sum

when it’s a little thing, such little thing

could be the hope for which to sing,

instead participating in a self-castration:

questioning virtues of moderation.