When poetry is called non-progressive,
Society prioritises gains,
Machinery and banking are the blessings,
And human race its own path betrays,
 
What can a poor poet, born untimely,
Achieve in the unfair descending world,
Besides all the unnecessary rhyming
And even less appreciated rightful thoughts?
 
The current art is to confuse and stugger,
To hint to dirty secrets, all aloof;
It serves to entertain, provoke and bugger,
It has abandoned the pure simple truth.
 
The art isn't suitable for the progressive grimness:
It is for human spirit and uniqueness.