All the children and slaves demand your speed
and praise this man, Grandpa Fatso, you god
who covers upstate New York. My fellow Americans
will get your busy blizzards conjured from some cauldron.
And the poor, poor parents: do they care about your heart,
which is worthless anyways? You spirit girls away in the dark
and pollute with money, lazy in your pain. You don't invent pain.
Sorry to dash your hopes against some holy-mantled mountain
but there is the truth o great great lover. Go ahead. Cry.
Your liver will bleed through your right eye.
After all the prospected trillions of years,
and greased black maniacal engine gears
singing the same old savage dung song
the world still chugs freakishly straight along.
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