Rip What You Sew

the young and the old-- the mortar of this life.

Look out for them, you middle aged.

You're a brick, you're a beam, you're the structure is what you say.

Not for long, and you hide from the eyes sinking deeper in the glass

'cause not long will it be and your parents will be gone

and you'll have no where to face but behind you at the children you neglected

and who learned from your rejection of the old.

Should the children feel grateful if permitted from conception to the crib?

The old for not being put to sleep?

Is being from a previous era of thought the same as inexperience? no!

Is being a blank canvas with no experiences the same as inhuman? no!

Dare any judge the value of a life as less than worth fair nurture?

Children are raised, the middle ones age.

Children are not children for long, but that brief window is eternity for them; remember?

They'll call the shots in a little while, and you're teaching them not to save a place for you.

And I say to you who want to do away with the weak, the young, the old,

you'll reap what you sow...when your mind is still on target

but your body's broken down,

and the people walk away and leave you cold

will you wave a feeble hand and weep for little children who are murdered by the laws you sought to pass?

But now you're young and in your prime, say "call me sister not your mama"

You're fighting for the right to be alone and without guilt

fighting with your words to say that words don't have to mean

a thing unless you say they do; let's call it ripping what you sew.