The business of being unborn

The bus,
That salmon of metal made to push people around
People to lazy to drive,
People that become the guts
People to work, smash themselves in to get home
Making their day just 20 minutes more miserable. A
War happens, one the will never celebrate a
There is a war of smell
A war of attitude
A war of politeness
A war of wars
All of the airs and clothing do not save inches between the homeless and lawyers. Dirt moves unhindered.
The battlehymn is Take Me Home, but the battle cry is capitulation,
Smooth and easy like the handsome
Like a rose in a windowless room.
There will be a constant shove from behind, such as life itself.


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