Senses

Does the sense that disaster's coming,
Itself, bring it on you?
My guess is that the sense is torture enough,
No matter what you do.

Though, in a sense, it helps you cope for what's coming,
Senses peaked and reflexes ready.
It's also a sign you've put yourself out there,
Amongst the predators waiting for meat.

Because it's rough out there, there's no doubt about that,
Whether the concrete jungle, or town hall,
The bricks and mortar of all human constructions,
Are first laid by those who want it all,

And who think it's alright,
To enter rooms with a sense of impunity,
And to place blame everywhere but on themselves,
Thinking that's the only way to make themselves smell sweet.