I watch as a watchman would watch from his tower,
Asleep in the doldrums, astounded by comforts,
Sardines on his plate slated with celery,
Conscience suspended among the laundry
Waiting for a Sunday, wilting for caress,
Some buttress to criminals’ duress.
Who wants rhyme, why hunger for justice
When justices crave only lust? And just as I was
About to confess to you—the mange disappears,
Cellophane morass turn to rum molasses,
Though also well-augured by witnesses to
Future shit, the blithe brothers, “forever and
Ever, all men created equal, today and whenever,
When the train leaves at any given time of arrival.”
So, this cannot wait, I have to protest the crassness.
I cannot be late, I need documenting cameras.
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