The scent
of the tempt
of your marketing ploy
shall not be feast-event
for that wallet’s mind.

Go find
another field to destroy,
comporting herds of boys:
transplant your intent,
after snipping the cord
tying them to their clans
and lands;
go vent
their hearts of ancestral trends,
of all the sweat spent,
all their bloodline’s laments,
linking plans and hands;
intervene your demands
(cloaked as impulse’s friends);
recalibrate ends.

Raze a Cup!
Youth shall sup
at your table,
only.