it’s hard to feel sorry for the free
beholden to no responsibility
save to fight for our right to party,
pampered with too much opportunity,
each bite of our luxury
increasing our morbid obesity.
we are the prisoners of liberty.

but it’s hard to pity our decay:
spoiled choices rotting away.
it’s a decomposing array
we compose our lives from day to day

and it’s hard to not laugh when we bemoan
how we feel so all alone
and elsewhere there’s famine and war-zones,
but we’ve got condoms and iphones,
so it’s no one’s fault but our own
that loneliness is a concession
for never not having to be tied down,
for never having to be dethroned.
oh, so light lies our crown.