Chorus of woe.
Not ours to do.
Pesky tasks for vague thems
Most human of vainglorious attributes.
In gathered room of prayer, con-solace,
commoners sing of pestilence.
So pleasant a dingy air.
Cronies, kin, at one in entrained disdain.
Don’t come crying to us when your fancy plans
to have us all be haves and happy can’t become
a cause that leaps with us all as brilliant flame.
We can’t be responsible, aren’t the abling crew.
As ours are trained, we do: roll eyes and complain.