one makes a living by selling death in a bought market
fraught or not with fraud and applause resounding
until the livid have maids pulling up the coroner's sheets
to the dismay of the rabble
comprising the effete gargantuan populace
clapping their lips like indentured servants
who can't spell their whey out of the cheesebags under eyes
meant to shine, to varnish sublime, to weedwhack spines
stooped for pigeon feeding and large change
rendering the life in brushstrokes that keep the canvas dry
and easily chewed by truly hungry alarmists
wound up and ticking the blood for all it is worth
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment