Fellow victims of the slothengale
The temperate buldge which does not budge
The gin-soaked, fat innocent
With eyes stapled shut
To the world's woes-
White picket fences keep it all out
(Until the lumber for those pickets go up)
We lounge in our t.v. tarnished - tan backed chairs
Toting tolerance with a yawn
As we accumulate gadgets
And mow lush lawn inside our cages of safe suburbia.
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