Plucked, or fucked?

Was that the Golden Goose
plucked almost naked by the small hands of plutocrats
with feathers scorched off by the sirocco winds of industrial inaction
or by the children squabbling over the last egg in the mineral rich lands

She has been dressed in a wig of the style of parodied politicians
to give an air of authority
or ridicule
Either way it is not to promote her best interests

Do the answers lie in the arms of the holder?
She is carried nonchalantly – not with care, nor security
but with the assumption that she will behave, sit as bid
to enhance the image

His image
This buttoned up man-of-the-people
carefully casually dressed

But the setting is hers
this lake her spring home, these trees
that she happily inhabits

He doesn’t
His stone-washed denim saw no stones
Was washed in toxic chemicals
with a carbon footprint bigger than her life’s migratory mileage
He symbolises something other than symbiosis

So you think this image personifies spring –
Or the winter of life on this planet

Plucked, or fucked?

Do we laugh ‘til we cry
Or cry ‘til we laugh
as it is all too, too far?