I don’t know why they guard them so,
These lords of ash, these kings of woe.
With burning sticks they choke the skies,
Yet laws bend low before their lies.
They cough, they spit, they blacken air,
And still the world calls this “their share.”
The children wheeze, the windows cry,
But smoke is crowned and truth must die.
Why protect the ones who kill?
Why shield the hand that feeds us ill?
I don’t know why, I cannot see,
This fierce defense of misery.