My mother’s lap was not of luxury
and I never suckled on trust fund teats.
My first steps were not across a Persian
and my first word was not Lamborghini.
Still, I am a spoiled brat, respective —
mornings begin with a hellish shower (
heat for eternity, laying barren
rainforests,) without which my soul suffers.
This hate I feel is for me, penitent.
The love I desire, nature has denied me.
Oh, to be a mountain gorilla lost
to the world — feeding on bedewed verdure,
clothed by the clouds — beyond the gates of men
a primeval life, paradise ne’er lost.
But if the mountain gorilla knew me,
would he regret his poacher-stricken life
and long for the low lap of luxury
that I now reproach with ev’ry damned breath?