Bad Weather

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It's too late,
our spines bent.

We should stoop the rest of our lives,
but we didn't get here from being wimps.

We can crack our backs back into place.
Just a little pain.

There... Now let's walk,
looking over what needs to be done.

There's a lot of crooks in high places.
They need to be yanked down.

They'll call us a mob.
Many of us will die.

Our last breaths
inflating the wind into a hurricane.

Bad weather for some time,
cleansing the country into a shine again.