Pushers - 2011/05/14

It haunts my every waking vision
Even as its stench fills my nose
A waving tapestry of an illusion
Powered by infantile whiny prose
Each morning I have it delivered
It arrives regardless of weather
Occasionally delivered in pieces
Some days its light as a feather

Typically it is heavy with tripe
Born of my angry fellow citizens
Is it any wonder I will not read
Any of their poisonous emissions
For ideas expressed by those led
Are merely imitations for others
Ever remember they put on an act
For benefit of tools and mothers

Yet despite my dire reservations
Every dawn I am challenged again
To resist the lure of the clowns
Speaking about whatever has been
Whether paid or simply concerned
Their authors are beyond twisted
Time and time again they pretend
That ratiocination never existed

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