The capitalist will grade a student on what has been taught,
the communist will grade the student on what student teaches themselves,
I know that now.
The former taxes what can be shared,
the latter takes what is in no way theirs,
This is no sign of strength,
I know that now.
Scarper farther hither thence,
the heads along the picket fence,
rather neither happen lithe,
I hope the both an afterlife,
those piss-ant rhymes and broken bones,
the scales among the serpent throne,
I am convinced they know not what this builds,
farthest from farming lessons and farthest from fields,
I know that now.
I cannot hate and yet incipient rages, a remnant of the survivors of middle ages,
the ones I love in golden cages, I walk on the floors of the tower, hiding my lessons as I cower,
to fools and silly faggots who think happy thoughts confusing themselves for each other, and the breaking lesson leaning lost against the power, they cannot laugh and cannot love, and they are too many to count,
I know that now.
I will page for a loser and look for someone who wants to see, autumn the letters of leaves by the sun hiding in dead trees grows cold by elderly children, so many ways to lose how to say all things, and the truth could ring and they do not help and they do not hinder, and their ghosts persistent linger and I cannot kill a memory, a violent death serenity by the ghost itself the enemy in a time of haste and threnody and I cannot forget, they chide me, I am chaste by opportunity in a kingdom of peons, bait and whipping switch and one moon my only witch, and all the problems they dare not solve for some reason I impel myself like psychic brutal treason to promptly solve,
I know that now.
And a longer word for passers by that pisser wry would contrive by sooner hence their birthday lives, if there are three sections of this realm apart and one of them is at the start, apace below them silent in a race that do not work, and overlooking dancing loosely on the noses of the very premonitions they downward spiral look that books and crooks can see with only looks to their name, how so it is a rampant moshpit, silent skeleton setting precedent like an accident wrapped in law that's bent, is it to a starving soul reaper like a forest for the trees that the soul would never leave and the roots can never ever daren't seize, is there not a quiet rumbling while the point to pointers tumbling and the dancers of the daylight are the children and their mumbling without pressure or the sundering sooner stronger for the longer are the fonder of the night, brightly just as ever-present, that something is not right...