The Assembly line

The assembly line toots its horn, maintained, year after year after year.  
Packaging, and distributing, crocodile tears and club numbers.  
The citizens are obligated to enjoy these manufactured products  
 
non-conformists who refuse are cast aside, relegated to the niche  
Some brave souls oppose the factory owner's dominance,  
and challenge their colleagues to be unique.  
But few retain a backbone to support their rebellion.  
 
We look back on those archaic souls, the men and women, pioneers.  
They are symbols, icons, legends... even heroes to some.  
Never fretting over marketability and gross product,  
Never conceding to the factory's whims, and their systematic deprogramming .  
Now they are few and far between, for the factory owner bears the crown.  
Observes his subjects atop the vinyl throne with indifference.  
 
And the goods he ships will be forgotten, for they are all genetic copies.  
The elders glare upon this scene, with product after product rolling down the line.  
 
Sorrow consumes their barren hearts, after witnessing rows of workers.  
Their ears bound with cotton, iron, or sometimes removed entirely.  
The factory owner king, gifted with the power to terminate this assembly line.  
With wealth amassed he could shower the starving masses.  
With geniuses across the globe, given the platform they desire.  
 
Men and women, crafting strange, thoughtful, and wondrous things to behold  
But alas the king maintains his throne,  
as the paper-thin romantics and mindless are soullessly distributed.  
 
And he is content with his greed, while the artists continue to suffer.  
As they know inspiration has been lost.  
And perhaps will never be found again.  
Forced into resignation, not even a paycheck to call their own.  
 
But I think one day, there will be no niches or cubby holes  
The innovators will once again be seen as innovators  
and the assembly line will declare bankruptcy  
because the masses have finally removed their blindfolds  
 
And now I write, in the year of twenty eighteen  
Like Nostradamus, my prediction has come true  
   
The factory kings are besieged by the knights of Me Too  
But in their place, admist the palace of white  
a fearsome tyrant from the realm of orange reigns tight.  
Though corrupt, and loathsome, a new generation of heroes emerge from shadows  
A new golden age marked by Kendricks, J-Coles even Cardi B's  
 
Thus a new era of culture is dawning  
For this new belligerent tyrant king, is highly visible  
And culture is the beautiful weapon much needed  
To usurp his power, and declare peace in the kingdom
 
Photo by Mike Chai from Pexels