Wolves in sheep’s clothing (poem)

Self-appointed authorities, basking in false majesties,

nothing is as it appears, they are a well-spring of fears.

O brother tell me then with that smile so endearing!

what shall become of the child you’re rearing?

Who would have thought a venomous sting

could be such an innocuous thing?

Grand, lofty words, unlived all the same,

In the end you’re playing the obedience game.

It struck me profoundly some years now past,

that obedience to flesh and bone ought to fall last.


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