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If you’re under five foot six
You’re working down the mine.
You’re a poor genetic mix
And you do not reach the line.
The line dictates who goes, who stays,
Who dies, who gets to live.
The line will state who works, who plays –
The ‘natural order’ sieve.
Tall is more intelligent,
More efficient, too;
“You’re stumpy. I am elegant.
“I’m twice as good as you.”
Shorties don’t have rights of state;
Shorties don’t get paid.
Shorties cannot procreate
For new ones to be made.
And finally the Giants won.
They danced and sang and ate.
But sure as morning’s rising sun,
They’d shaped their own cruel fate.
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