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While the fleshy gears
In the mirrory ‘scrapers
Turn, an empty stomach
Churns near a fire
Smelling of last night’s vomit.
The stakeholders throw dividends
The equivalent of ammunition
In the new world war,
Titans in the order of things
Oblivious to the smoke streams
Coming from below.
There they throw stones in jest
Crunching glass in their camps
under tents and over asphalt
under the wooded cover,
a poor man’s shelter.
They barter in drink and
Dabble in drugs to pass
The hours out of the fighting,
The business man’s war.
They have no draft cards,
They require an address,
One-fifty-one campfire row won’t suffice.
A raucous joy masks their distain
For themselves, soldiers unfit
To fight for the dream
Pondered on golf courses
Just before the guillotine
Drops, removing gears from
the machine, the great tank
pushing forward to get more green
paper, a joke in the POW zone.
The money means nothing,
It is only a loan.
They deal in goods or none.
Still, the war rages on
Until everything but the penthouse
Is a slum.