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© October 11, 2007, Roy Stucky

When the morning arrives with its fife and its drum
And the table's been swept to the dogs for a crumb
Then the battle inside joins the march in the streets
With the veterans whose eyes have seen many defeats.

The defenses our generals have said we're to hold
Must depend on equipment those generals have sold.
But still out of the foxholes come coyotes so lean
It is plain why they charge at the money machine.

Banks in tanks have mown us down.
Pistol pearls now grip the town.
Children dropping though the gaps
Make folks fight for table scraps.

Ecological methods surround space with frames.
Meters mark off a list tying numbers to names.
Cattle guards divide yards into predefined lanes.
Shepherds watch over flocks that arrive here on trains.

Blanks in ranks are drawn to town.
No one notes when they fall down.
Men in dens gnaw naked bones,
Packed in stacks yet still alone.

Auditorium seats wait for tribal release.
People cheer for the fighters whose fame is on lease.
Hear the lotto vibrato that's song for a swan,
Games of chance the last refuge of promise gone wrong.

Pranks with cranks are played by clowns.
Painted smiles make happy frowns.
Circus tents fill vacant lots,
Caricatures of what we're not.