The edge is where the balance hangs, I muse,
clasping bolt-cutters in a shaky grip.
My shoes are on backwards – leave no clues!
Is that a drone? On Guard! – there’s many a slip…
Humans are nomadic in their hearts,
we spoil our ground, up sticks and move along,
our curate’s egg is undefiled in parts:
clamouring for those, a mighty throng.
Someone always claims their piece of pie,
a fence is their preferred means of defence:
times like this call forth one such as I,
who act here with equanimous intent.
Yield to the Force,
let Nature take its course!