As children we’re experts at doing without
Relinquishing even life without a shout
If death is all we’re allowed to be about
By those who tended the garden of We-eden
Where we were bred, fed and bedded
With whatever gruel happened to rule
The emotional home of our beginnings
Where the good-of-all laid claim to our winnings
When disappointment becomes depressive settle
Adapting to sacrifice’s suicidal kettle
Blame ruthlessly shaming to help the killing
Of our particular recalcitrant willing