I start to whistle a trebled tune when the the eighteen men who rule the world start to rock back and forward to some music I have not heard. Each to their own cadence, each lost in a vision of some thing (is it domination, determination, dowager kindness, or thirsty lust) only they see.
I wish my tune were snake charmer, coiling sprung power from a basket of snakes to caress and conserve what we keep close, to bring it out and sting the world around, as even snakes can’t help their lower case c conservative nature when I lay my whistle down.