Mother horn

my city hides its villageness

Behind its mountain tops

Pastoral communities

conniving where we shop

the mother horn zermatters wore

With alps as a facade

Wonder porn and matters torn

for riches from abroad

Wins distort our winter sport

Drawing close to inner courts

Of fantasies and bitter scorn

Take my picture, Matterhorn

For when I capture all your might

I feel my power shrink

Maybe if we flip the switch

I wouldn‘t need a drink

Until we do

I‘ll work my shift

Burning bridges, building lifts

The things we wish

Without the shifts

All we know is poison gifts.