But Brutus is an Honourable Man

A swarm of flies, buzzing some noise,

Infecting with vice, their illness and lies.

A herd of cattle: cumbersome, shackled,

Their jelly brains rattled, trudge their way on to trample.

A mob of rioters, whipping up losers;

Living for pleasure, ignorant believers.

A murder of crows, piercing beaks to their foes;

Caws commotion to those who want to brighten their toes.

A flock of birds, lifeless as nerds,

Feed by day, sleep and curse; gossip ’bout him and her.

Spiteful venomous snake that plots in its wake

To murder that hare before he escapes.

Misletoe pretty, will kiss you a’plenty,

With tentacles many, rooting deep in your belly.

You with your mob, have safety in numbers.

You sit with your flock, think you know all the answers.

You sit with your herd, faithlessly loyal

Cling to your every word like the speech of the Bible.

Restless, you preach; you like to fight and scream.

Like to watch others bleed while you snigger, pleased.

The mob from the Outside, as viewed from here,

An entertainment to mime, for all their antics and fears.

Fears, yes, there are. Concealed in their numbers.

Seem to wander and laugh, never stopping to wonder

Why they revel in pain, why they love their own name,

Why they play childish games, why they are just so lame.