Your projection leaves much to be desired

A preacher on a sphere barren, brown

Leaves fall at your feet, then washed away

By the biting tide, of dull and grey.

 

And since your last promotion you have

Been slow to react, blank, negative

The whites of your eyes never clearer

All ear for problem lost in the wash.

 

That I guess is the nature of the rise

The clear law that all sense defies

Provoked you turned and twisted free

Of your friends, now mere loose debris.