In any age or world,
E'en if a chicken is in ev'ry pot,
No flag is left unfurled,
For it is a matter of perspective,
Limited by nothing,
This freedom with which we e'er chain ourselves,
Is brandished by those who're born with cunning,
They'll not wait 'til Sunday for their chicken,
Nor care if you have it,
Every chicken in their pot suits them fine,
You're nothing, by habit.
Nothing to do,
With upbringing, you see,
That assumes nurture preceded freedom,
But how can you rear by choice when not free?