The World Poem by Aidan Clevinger

On a busy, crowded street,
Where the poor made princes meet,
On leather, thick-soled feet,
I sit and eat my meal.

I look around me and I see,
Empty, hollow vanity,
The bustle and the irony,
In this place we call the world.

A world of ties and gold and collars,
Of books by cynical scholars,
Of status and of dollars,
Where worth is by the pound.

Where all is as it seems,
Where ends justify the means,
Where conformity by any means,
Is the way to happiness.

By cold hours passed as pleasures,
By long days passed as treasures,
We note, with grave displeasure,
That this world has nothing to give.