How Tiresome A Little Portmanteau Of Heavy Slogans Is Poem by JG Correa

What freedom can dispense with proper critique
When outsourced cult opinions struggle by?
Which impartial critic is without archetypes
And clichés drawn from vernacular maligners?

My generation abolished most values,
Hardly substituting anything valorous.
What remained was an arid, sterile world
Where life no longer tasted as good as hope.

Future will testify: empty existences
can be less valuable than good intentions.
I've been ordered to produce heavy slogans.
Hopefully, I won't mistake lust for love.

How tiresome can a little portmanteau
Of pithy mottoes be? I'd like to know.