Play on, Mr. Piper,
play the songs of your calling,
the tempting lure, ensnaring from the most wicked
to the innocent.
Casualties mean nothing to the Piper,
when his music buries the unfortunate,
leaves them to rot, swimming with the earth dwellers that have long been abandoned,
as he prances with his instrument to a wider audience.
He dances, with enough grace and masculinity
to mask the deceit, he reeks of it.
His feet move to the hymns of solid promises, and trails of sugar sprinkle his steps.
Our knees buckle as we lick, tasting the sweetness he so graciously bestows upon,
in hopes of not being forgotten.
His horse neighs from the high heavens, where his throne sits.
As the sky above us remain murky, bearing pregnant clouds
with hot, humid rain escaping to singe our skin every sunrise to sunset.
But where he sits, lightning never strikes.
Or so he thinks.
His contentment leaves us unruffled,
despite the stacks of paper thin ego littering him.
“Let him play on”, Mother says.
For if he stops, the rain will follow,
And flowers will wither.
Nothing will grow.
So play on, Mr. Piper.