Shackles & Yokes Poem by John Sensele

Slave driver strive to ride to a river
Where I've poured your shackles and buckles
That had me behind in every rind of silver
For which I longed all along in happiness spectacles.

Slave driver, I never want to set eyes on you again
Lest my ire should fire me up to retire
Tired tricks, streaks of tedium and pricks of pain
Each time, each moment I spot the coat of your vampire.

Slave driver, my body suffers too much malady
At your coarse, bossy hands and endocrine glands
That catalyse spasms of violence and insolence tragedy
I've endured despite knowing your cure lies in far away lands.

Slave driver, let me retrieve the sieve of my future
Lost in your toss of biased dice to slice off
My freedom, promote your repressive fiefdom and devote space and time to a vulture
Culture in pain, strain and vanity rain every time you scoff my cough.