Musings: Things we are told

Under the dark light-less shadows which hang upon the heads of those old infants of cunning childhood, the things they are told are despicable; bordering on immoral anarchy. Their eyes glaring with the red of authority - which stops a thousand buzzing busy bees. It is perhaps the only time that they can hear themselves. Yet these mangy wastrels can hear through the noise of busy buzzing bees into their wits. They know, know better than us of the things we are told. "Life is not fair!", "Life is really hard!", "Life is a bitch!" or "Life sucks!" - They licked life's feet, devouring it brick by brick in the cloth cradle that they were given life upon. Oh! The tale they tell of trembling tokenism of tokens thrown at them by kind and gracious men; chivalric facade of lustful intent with the lady who observes from behind. The light turns green and a black fog surrounds the street, and when it vanquishes in the air, all that's left is the soundless echoes of the things that we are told.