Complexity

BRITAIN’S ‘COMPLEX SOCIETY’

Complexity’s a government department,
The Sin of System sit’s in every chair;
Their mediocre minds sealed in compartment,
So ‘It can’t be done’ invades the fœtid air.

They’ll tell you that ‘society is complex’,
So all people must be boxed to make it fair;
But it’s they who spawned the ghastly chains of inflex,
As ‘It’s not allowed’ pervades the rancid air.
 
The Sin of System’s sodemised Society,
As thinking has been outlawed by The State;
Free Judgement’s now the deepest impropriety
 As the gruesome bureau-gaolers slam the gate.
Because
System is designed to be complexity
So we never have the time to think ourselves;
By causing all who work so much perplexity
The bureaus know we’re kept upon their shelves;
But

Society is simple when uncumbered,
 When ungoverned by the bureau in his lair
Who, to justify his keep, makes rules un-numbered
Then ‘This is So’ infects the putrid air.

If the lousy little bureaus bred fine Friesians
So contributed to all their fellows’ share;
We’d live in sunlit dunes like Polynesians
With the glories of the wonder of Free air.
But
We’ve made them so must serve their lousy legions
To find, ‘Do it Thus’ entangled in our hair.

‘Cause alas
We’ve created a society that is complex,
Subservient to the didacts who’ve said, ne’er
Again High-Hills show Freedom of the simplex
As we struggle vainly up t’wards the air.

The air we breathe’s no freedom any longer,
 For polluted by the lice who play the whore,
As the Sin of System rages ever stronger
We’re corrupted as we’ve never been before;
For
People disappear in System’s vortex
Sucked in, spewed out, then binned, for badly gored;
Society’s lost its heart as people now but cortex
The husk that’s tossed to swine, to be ignored.

For people are now merely automata
Prostituted by the protocols’ control;
Lost to Man’s skilled state for being merely bits of data - so
Civis blighted because people are its soul.

So we wither as Spiritual being
Quite unable to vision ‘the seeing’;
Now unable to utter
 For down in the gutter
The words to enable our freeing.

It is a sorry case my dears
Of those whose silly little fears
Have passed their rule to others;
Without the guts to face life’s fun
They’ve turned their faces from the sun
Into the clutch of ‘priests’ they’ve run
abandoning their brothers;

To lousy machines
Which they’ve made their dreams
Now their image it seems;
As they press the knobs
To keep their jobs
There are no sobs;
Because we’ve all sold our souls to The System.

© Margaret Montrose
www.thegoldenpath.co.uk