Maybe once the end days come, when New York, Prague and Rotterdam are underwater trash heap scum our feudal lords will listen.
Maybe they’ll become irate, about the world they loved to hate, they’ll learn to feel, but far too late; the demon has been christened.
In fifty years, your coastal towns, might as well be under ground, the world that you love WILL drown in polluted melted ice.
That is certain, no plant based drink, Caesar salad or home grown meat will change the fate of our worlds meek who someday soon WILL starve.
We’ll reap the fruits of which they’ve sown, the peasants shoulder the whole load, and even then the beasts will moan about how much they’ve given.
Some will listen, I will not, some of us can see the plot, and we know well they care for naught but their own factorial gain.
Maybe once they see their kids, floating in their flooded cribs, they’ll change their ways and make their bids on saving what is left.
My advice? Don’t wait and see. The ants must come to save the queen, our Earth cries out, into our dreams, and begs us just to save her.
You have shovels. You have spades. You have knives, and guns and blades. Fight this now, don’t watch us fade into the cosmic mist.
Stalingrad, Treblinka, Rome, the beasts will slaughter, write their tomes, and tell us all our lives are whole, there’s meaning in our loss.
And so our tomes will tell the tales of how their wicked towers fell, of how we fought and gave them hell to save our crippled world.
Please don’t wait, don’t let them bet, our planet is a treasure chest, and if we let them rape it dead there is no promised land.
Maybe when they taste the blood, as they’re thrown into the mud, they’ll feel regret for what they’ve done, but for them, at least?
Too late.