Tight ride over uneven roads, long distance.
Defaulting poor folk kicked off by greedy banks.
The egg broken, the cocoon breached.
The warmth of family tested, cracks a little.

Why do we all play into sickness this way, holding up
the machine?
Nothin' but a greedy gobbler with zits on its face, holding us
over steam, turning our sweat to coins.

Highways passed and road stops by a strange camp.
No, none too friendly.
Into tiny blocks bundled, and foremen huddle sheep
to the fields.

Open slaughter of work. March us back to the confines.
A sad day. Bits of paper and forms to fill, is all we become.

Omelettes today, some meat in the tent later. Come happy, children.
Come lick at the cauldron on the dusty floor.

Beyond the golden fields, the sun bursts to final red.
A small walk denied. ****, dreams in the hot tea curls.