Streets are charged, electric;
Milling crowds are hectic;
The rage it does now overflow;
The violence is pyrectic.

Boy he lifts a rock;
Inserts it in his sock;
Around, around his head does go;
To ‘nother lad doth knock.

Vendor burns his stuff;
Will it be enough?
A sacrifice of his to show;
The consequences rough.

Bodies on the street;
They are never neat;
Piles of them do grow and grow;
Oh, smell so sickly sweet.

When will they be done?
And when the tax ’tis gone?
Or when the man above does know;
That they sure have won.

What does rage desire?
Why does anger spire?
Do they want to right bestow?
Or are they sure for hire?

Man who is in charge;
Persona, his is large;
Yet ignorant he does not know;
How’er to this fire sparge.

It is but a plan;
From a maddened man;
Revenge for failure bright as snow;
Madness now to fan.

What in fact to do?
How to see it through?
Should a’groveling we go?
Or to bid adieu.

Answers, they’re not good;
Knowing not we should;
Of how to deal with dangers though;
Reverse the time we would.

And now my sage advice;
Comes without a price;
Worry not for streets aglow;
And do not e’r play nice.

For what it is they’re after;
Can’t be met with laughter.
This the world your feet below;
And your quiet hereafter.