There is this kind of drulling around
The drones come in buckets filled with the swamp scents that
leave their mind rotten and green
All they seek is that outlet
The golden wives dressed draped in diamonds and old
histories dwelling above their pretty little heads
Traveling in the moving van
Giving them their fix on the wealth daddy left
These fiends grasp their dripping talons into the vertebrae
of men controlling them with head
With a scoped lens I look into this living
While the road pulls me on and on and on
Their beauty like that of a siren
Calling me in
I resist their song
Which makes me dripping angry and red
The ears hearing me
Feel a jealous entitlement in my disgust of their exuding
chain gain of the old dead bodies laid before them
As the surfs and wait staff look in
Apart from my looking glass and pen
Where did the revolution go and when did it die
Baristas and broke bricks on the sidewalks in savannah
Just glad for the sweat only a working man can get in the
beating sun
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