I hate these muddy springtime season dawns,

as Spring awakens passions long submerged

beneath the tundra, chemically urged

by every breath of nature: breeding pawns.

And yet, these buried passions move in me

just as they prod my fellow man forlorn;

These people stumble, love-wracked, war-torn,

in search of something most will never see.

Fear not, for nature conquers hope as well

of ending nature’s bio-tyranny

to issue forth an endless symphony

of shrieking babes: new stock, fresh souls to sell.

The Spring inspires a soul to long harder.

Each Spring insists I become a martyr.