Tradition, progress, and a den of vipers.

Progress and Tradition,
Dying to compete,
Will we all wear the same mask?
Or will the cycle still repeat?

What profit is it to a man,
to gain the world and lose his soul?
Ask the people at the top,
Certainly they would know.

The poor have no obvious threats,
no cutthroats in the night.
What they face is an intellect,
hidden out of sight.

A worm that feeds on the less than plebeian,
widening the gap.
Betwixt the impoverished and the fortunate,
gorging on the sap.

Traditions kill the so called progress,
calling treatment an affront.
But how can you raise your voice in praise,
strangled by the mumps?