Blank paper to start
And he checks the clock by the minute.
Given task and conceit too huge to conceive
Given time too little to do it.
The virtues of Man swirl about in his head
Fizzing and filling every corner
He dips his pen in an oil slick that
Managed to kill an ecosystem
I think I have cried that once,
When a church organist demandeth it.
Paint a red cross across the dead, lost night
And hear the maidens’ whim like it were
He is scared of the system
He is caught in the system
He does not believe in a woman-led land.