THE FORSAKEN TRADITION (1)

The Colonial Rules

As we sit waiting in our illusion mind
We await none but of the elusive time
The birds in their nest
Yet we think not what is best
When their creepy noise is at rest

Our heritage which have long been sold
That we seek not but of old
Best in thought but rap in cold
Failing to create none we seek of gold
The suffering though have long been foretold

Clamoring in future hope
When we fail on how to cope
Our fast track have been forgot in a lope
Now we seek prayer from a rat Pope

Oh! those glorious days have long been gone
Heritage our father's build have all been torn
Our heritage abashed from the rule of the unknown masters
All now is a story of disaster

Coming in with a face like that of a dove
Innermost mind we know not but a predator
Ruling out our heritage theirs is installed into ours
Now we all love not of ours but theirs in every hours.