we’ll all be roughly sectioned
once they change the common laws
to adam smith’s perfection,
and let greed determine flaws.
when the bottom line interprets
what a working man is worth,
then his inner life’s a circus
of sad clowns who peddle mirth.
round the gay pavilions
go the monkeys void of sins,
with coppers in the billions,
rabid dogs with sanctioned grins,
who wet themselves with knowing
what is just around the bend,
when the only flag that’s blowing
is from moloch’s modern friends.
by Chris Nelles