I woke today and stumbled out of bed,
And there beside me was, to my surprise,
Two bulbous eyes atop a lumpy head.
He spoke, at last, about the way our skies
Are filled with smoke; the scar of our neglect
and disregard; those things not quite pristine
Are junked for lack of novelty, reflect
on all the pain you've felt, the hurt you've seen.
A hobo sobs alone amid the crowd,
the hunger lingers on, the streets his bed,
To him the simple things are not allowed,
He often wants to sleep and wake up dead.
The creature's rant revealed the truth to me,
On earth, we are our own archenemy.