Monday 12 October 2009

The churn

Drop a wedge in the cogs
For if the wheel has its way,
The sign will only ever read
'Nothing here to display'.

For it's the stoic, the stalwart
Who keep up the race
Who assuage a throbbing belly,
Fodder since gone to waste.

Chewing on churn
That does nothing but sate,
The jaws of the masses
Oh how they must ache.

And yet it continues
Like muck spread over lands
Layering over everything
Yet out of our hands.

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