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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.

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