There will come a day when the last original idea is birthed

An immaculate conception

Unlike so many others in it’s time

It is a beautiful thing that needs space to grow

And it sings like no bird before it

But it is only a matter of weeks

Until the men in freshly pressed charcoal suits find it

By following the grimy, abhorrent smell of profit

And the fanatical cheers of the masses

They bargain with it’s mother

Offering to raise it like the funny lines on their computers

Which only they can do

They present stock options instead of murr

And fame instead of potential

The corporations will bow their heads

Begging and worshipping

But fight one another in an inhuman fashion

Biting and gouging and twisting

Until one remains

And the idea is adopted or kidnapped

They force the ears of the world to listen to it’s song

In unavoidable advertisement

Until the people’s ears grow tired

So tired

Then they will squeeze the poor little thing so tight with their uncalloused hands

That it has no room to bud

And beat it and chip at its natural beauty until a circle fits a square peg

It will not mature

Or dig its roots

Or sing anymore

Frustrated, they squeeze some more

But this time slice and stab

Merchandise, movies and memorabilia

Then squeeze, squeeze and squeeze

Until it’s damn face is blue

The fans will offer their hands to help them squeeze

Some will weep

But the infant thought cannot endure the abuse

And so it’s juices will be rotten and bitter

And like the flame of a candle snuffed out amidst the winds of a hurricane

It will leave a black wick without a trace of smoke

Until a sequel

Squeeze

And maybe another

Squeeze

But by then, whatever was true about it is now false

And the world can only grow colder