Five minutes ago I learnt of a man
child of a child, windsock of an airfield.
The world of slavery is robust thanks
to him for both slaves and slave owners hang 
in his family tree. Y'see, children of slaves 
do become, sadly often, slave owners.

Red herrings swallowed could burst the guts
of infants born to slowly fade and sink,
but this world of slavery is robust 
for there's a chance of the lottery win:
no matter how many never reach it,
the prize is there so all is well, ain't it?

Five minutes hence a new voice'll entrust
something about U.F.O.s or ringtones.
Our world of slavery remains robust
established deep below these skipping stones.
One day is the image of another,
shall we just make the best of it, brother?