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Zane A. Murray

Rumble, rumble, goes the Earth,
The place where we live, the blue marbled hearth,
Infested with people, everlasting disease,
Taking from the earth, pulling, to cease.

We don’t know it, but we all have a barcode,
Things that you have already blandly showed,
Something that someone else chose,
Not on our skin, not on our clothes.

All working for the plays of one person,
We think things will change, but really they will worsen,
We forget that the people change things,
Not one person, that bites, and stings.

One day at a time, walk in the line,
Follow the shepherd, and everyone will be fine,
No you won't, you'll be lead into death,
That barcode will expire, you're another waste of breath.

Robots dressed in suits, always a destination, 
What about your natural presentation,
Tear off those numbers from the false abode,
Tear off those lines, that represent the barcode.