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Rated: E · Poetry · Political · #2138966
On catching trains and change. Spoken word. Political. Fun.
Deferred. They say it's deferred
if it's late. It's eight. It's supposed
to be here by eight-thirty. Disposed.
Thirty minutes. But still it's
such a short time. Bomb
ticking louder than
the train chime. Underneath's a mine.
A clockwork factory. Housing plenty
underneath the hierarchy. Referred.
To as the monarchy. The patriarchy.
The bourgeoisie. Whatever keeps
things from falling into anarchy.
Funny isn't it. The structure's supposed
to maintain order? Yes indeed, indeed it
does. Maybe you can say that's all it
ever was. Keep things together,
keep the change. No room for improvisations.
I'd say no room for improvements.
But still everyday someone somewhere
is allotting for their rents. That's just my two
cents. Don't take me literally.
The point is we're all under control.
All under control. We just wait at our stations.
And eventually, where we're supposed to
beheaded. We'll get there. Yeah,
we'll get there. It's only eight.
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