Artificially red from the sky over the inner city before the coming of the trucks,
it’s a tasty sticky-sweet super fruit mishmash, citizens have collection methods and sell pouches of it on street corners,
toxic slurry is mildly addictive, droves of children emerge all at once with their personal pots and pans,
immunization time and everyone comes with us, really it’s birth control and cataloging,
high servant class desperation is all they can really hope to hope for, but there are outliers,
the exception and not the rule lords their destinies in a finely tuned chord.
We tell them anything’s possible and it is in a sorta way but really it’s not,
“Remember when you didn’t have a dime?” fills stadiums with starry eyes and empty wallets,
dusky government addictions seep from on high, through the media zeitgeist,
all really needed is a tuning fork, set them to a mildly unhappy thirst quotient according to their station,
the psychobioheredity of class was finally codified in 2237, making things simple for all of us.
The occasional docudrama softens not our resolve, but now what we call out blood red perfection,
chance provides us our station, rolling triple sixes all day, proclaiming it as unearned provides a soulful contrition.
Invisible is the other way, so they head into their grinders filling out proper forms and wearing I.D. badges,
sustaining petroleum vaseline receptacle omnipresent, it’s everywhere
everyone look under their seats, you might find a peasant child compartment, congratulations.
Peasant children fetch six figures, easy, but that’s inhumane,
so just loan them to aristocrats with floors to scrub, and sometimes cocks to suck,
it’s sad but true reality, phasing through in flashes all superimposed,
lash yourself with the image, poor kids flashed, ignored and ridiculed, molested by adoptive parents,
business is business, and every cent you don’t leave for your children is a stain on your spirit