The little man dangles on,
tired of generations spawning,
the symbol of ancestral mistakes,
the artefact of their guilt.

Surrounded by filth and sweat and lust
he still has the balls to rise up again
and maybe he is crying for salvation
when we thrust him in again.

Like Sisyphus he will stand again,
hope he hasn’t lost ever,
taking the burden of expectant souls,
he will climb the mountain again.

When we are the gods
when we push him into the caves,
when we forge his desires to spit on us
as a craving for the abysmal abysses,
are we being objective?
Or are we thinking with our dicks?