The life blood of the being of our world

Is thinking, creativity and art;

These bourgeon through our minds and through our veins

And make us feel uplifted in our heart.

 

Their practice may produce art few will like,

And writings with which many won’t agree,

But comfort’s not the point of inspiration,

At least not when society is free.

 

But those in power, of whatever hue,

May feign to be outraged by things that shock,

And undermine expression’s cherished path

By putting the performers in the dock.

 

There too many dissidents to name

Whose work calls out injustice and constraint.

Make space for all those flowerings to bloom;

Let loose free rein with music, pen and paint.