It's All All Working

I try to live like it's all all working.
I try to believe it's all all working.
I was told this by a teacher I trust.
He's no longer with us, but I still trust.
I think I'm left with guarding the treasure.

It takes real effort in days like these.
Every snot-nosed bastard thinks he has
the right to wipe his beak on the sleeve
of anything sacred and good.
There are mothers out there
that will be required to answer
for the poor upbringing of so many brats.
(Don't get me started on the sins of the fathers.)
Because we suddenly have an abundance
of jackals. It might be time to thin the herd.

But it's all all working.

We have had it too good for too long.
We need a good dose of bad manners,
contempt, and runaway entitlement
to get to the place where the stranger
rides into town and slaps the town bully
senseless. And all the Angels sing:
"Hallelujah!"

But that same teacher also said:
"You can't get to satisfaction from complaint.
Anytime you have a complaint, you can find
the place where you abdicated responsibility."
Ouch! So I best be sure my own nose is clean.

In the meantime, I lead
the monks-sworn-to-vows-of-silence
at evening vespers in another round
of affirmations:

It's All All Working.
It's All All Working.
It's All All Working.