David SmithWhite (270552 / Australia)

A drowning man may huddle,
among his loved ones, cuddle;
the ocean but a puddle, in his brain.
A drowning man's befuddled.
His wit is skewed and addled;
emotions are a muddle, to explain.

I'm going under, going under,
you know I'm going down;
my lungs fill up with water
and I feel I'm gonna drown.
I'm going under, going under,
I barely make a sound,
I'm going under, going under,
going down.

I hear the nervous prattle,
of markets spooked like cattle,
and the properties that milk the churning fear.
Beneath my breath I mutter:
they spread the lies like butter.
On the common bread,
ideas are but a smear.

To this poet's quirk and oddity:
art's a mere commodity.
Ambition's arc and vector has no peer.
To the capital class, mere chattel,
indulge their dead-man's rattle;
the damage too collateral for tears.

To my incendiary interlocutor,
my dependent ego spin doctor,
the patient's wounds are fatal, yet he lives.
While critics carp and mock at the
pretty lyric of declamators,
my glib agent-provocateur forgives.

I see mistakes and blunder,
of needless wars of plunder,
for a mad world split asunder is a crime.
I've lost my awe and wonder,
of the raging storm and thunder;
you know I'm going under one last time.

I'm going under, going under,
you know I'm going down;
my lungs fill up with water
and I feel I'm gonna drown.
I'm going under, going under,
I barely make a sound,
I'm going under, going under,
going down.

It's a drowning man's rebuttal,
of a life ship-wrecked or scuttled;
forever blowing bubbles in the brine.
I't's a drowning man's last shuffle:
his final bluff and baffle;
as ever sowing troubles left behind.