It was a happy, happy world;
Everyone, with happiness, wore the shroud.
Without it, step out, one could not,
Or sweep on you, the police would.
Put you in prison, force you to wear black,
If you still refuse the joyous cloth.
Red was its colour,
Or so it appeared to me.
For some, it may have been yellow,
For another, orange with a golden sheen.
But I liked blue,
It induced in me, soulful blues.
I wished, I prayed, I would come to love red,
That I don’t reject the hegemony of enforced bliss.
I was green with envy of those who loved ‘happy’;
Alas, resented and shirked, that colour was too.
Red, I turned, with a burning anger,
Against all those enforcing upon me, red;
Soon, one day, I snapped, into the hands of my freedom,
And walked out wearing black,
Into the arms of evil, free-willed death.