Into the magma pit of Dystropolis.
Stuffed high with taco meat and perjuries,
Embroiled in a business den of linens
And harrowed upbringings.
They bring their wives to work on their back.
They pace the Capitol perimeter
With the War on their back.
Hungry ego-wardens planting heavy their signs
Into the grass still yawning from sleep,
Afraid of Spring's victory march
And other whoremantic bullshit.
What a way to see the highwaves roll about.
In the food court den,
We and our shirt-collar friends
Rip apart
And Sing N Out.
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