Are we a bellyful of instincts

Are we a bellyful of instincts
         neatly geared
      like the seven-sphered music box
      the ancients taught the universe to be
   or are we cursed by savage manners
      mainly following planners
      wielding sliderules and spanners
      for the robot god
      which will never lie under the sod
         lifeless like us?

   Spike us a saint to the cross
      or tap a barrel
      to spice the variety
         between oohs and ah!s
   -- exclamation points in our destiny

So we go on
   applauding or booing as the fit seizes us
      like crestfallen Caesars
      or little Napoleons running out of victories
   praying zestily
      with eyeballs glazed to lust after lust
         after frustration after frustration
         after god knows what ...

Black spot on the hand
      or bland diet of worms
      eaten between the coughing fits
         of sick affectation
      we call "life"
   as if health and strength
         were flinging caution to the winds
      like a bird winging across the ocean
      never to stop for fear of death
         the frenzy of our motion

Protest song written originally during the 'sixties [196_] revised mmvii