Agendas

A wasp will fly with batted wing.

Past love as cold, a human thing,

we are fickle, fickle, fickle.

The medics cry for stolen rings.

The patients die for drunken flings,

we are fickle, fickle, fickle.

Old lead-laced paint was solely sweet,

a taste to dare the starver's treat.

Plights from the old were fabled news,

what comes in now is sickly true.

We are fickle, fickle, fickle.