Helium Wind

If what you're calling a conspiracy
Is no more than a feeble, wilting gripe,
Then all this loud complaining is mere tripe,
A bagatelle of empty puffery.
There's no use in attempting to sway me:
I am a failure of a different stripe,
A bag of empty wind myself, as ripe
For picking as an autumn apple tree.

You say it's time for us to pay the piper,
But we were not the ones who called the tune.
I counted stars and stared up at the moon
While you expressed concern about a sniper
And told me I should learn to change a diaper.
I'm easy now, a helium balloon.