A Drone in the Hive

Oblivious to success, foraging filth to wallow. Slaves to the nectar that the selfish gluttons swallow. Self-professed philosophers, the prophylactic's defective, it should force the hand to cleanse, and cleanse, and cleanse, and cleanse. A drone in the hive. A sheep in the flock. Bred to imperfection, this human livestock. A pawn on the board. A brick in the wall. This pedigree of failure where one is all. Individuals will always rot with the rest. They will never rise a cut above the nest. The iron messiah contains them with an absent crown; freedom is nothing but an abstract noun. The philocalists march where there's safety in slumber, against the swarm where there's idiocy in numbers Angels torn from the sky, crying warnings prophetic. These saints left in agony, flightless and pathetic are ripped apart piece by piece, screaming and frenetic. One is all. All are none. Never have so many done so little for so few. Afflicted with convention, a change long overdue. A drone in the hive. A sheep in the flock. Bred to imperfection, this human livestock. A pawn on the board in a game that can't be won. This pedigree of failure where all are none.