Years, and heirs of years you’ve waited
Through guerilla fireworks and militia force
Heartbreaking years you’ve waited
And now, the cure is at hand; Yes, it is.
Time, with fire works, has tattered your defences
Each threatening happiness while delivering distress
But listen hard and mark my words,
For like a crock of solace, the contents soothe.
Emerging from impossibility, I present
— not black magic; not white magic —
Just the possibility of a cure.
An emollient like this, man has e’er sought, yet ne’er known, though it hid just ‘neath his nose.
And in keeping with fruitless tradition
Plutocrats have tendered high for globs the colour of mozzarella. It so reminds them of cheese.
Plebians beg from the lowest pegs for a satiny dollop. Among them, it has converted misery into manna.
They know what I say is true, while doubting it can be freely theirs.
But, smoothing, revitalizing, refreshing, moisturizing, redeeming, enlightening . . .
Lo and behold the cure — such a lovely balm, in truth.
And, All, I say to you, All, at once, deserve this niveous balm.
Liberally and lovingly applied
May you recognize its wonders
Freed from glass jar, plastic tube, and oak drum,
Witness the sublime lifesaver: