Bulldozer crickets
Screaming like children
The heat is heavy at the campsite
Where families of human sealions
Lie on hot rocks
Roasting their eyeballs
In their shiny red faces
Whose idea is to blame
For this household exodus
Kitchenettes with foreign food
And campers on wheels of exploited fortune
Life is low and almost apocalyptic
At the campsite
It's hard to imagine
That these self claimed inhabitants
Have build cities
And cultivated history
In a rich and fascinating fashion
Now they seem nothing more
Than an extinct kind of primate
That learned to use plastic utensiles
Having skipped their stone and wooden variants
We're leaning towards the edge of the open sea
Waiting for the finger of redemption
We're still waiting