Sir Francis Bacon at the Net
Merciless nature
Human and mother
Walk this land
Each through the arm of the other.
Their tithe they count in millions.
In a Land that loves its villains.
So calculating
It parses a man
Between the hand that held the dream
And the sword being held by the hand.
Their golden frames hang gleaming.
Tangled bones of their crimes bleaching.
Their golden frames hang gleaming.
Bleaching bones of their crimes tangling.
There he stands
A mere mist of a thing
Waiting his turn
To challenge the King.
He counts his time in centuries.
He lives on the smallest of mercies.
He counts his time in centuries.
As the map is unrolled
The dagger comes out
And that which was certain
Will now end in doubt.
Thank you Sir Francis Bacon.
Another piece of advice not taken.
Thank you Sir Francis Bacon.
Another piece of advice not taken.
