Some days the canned laughter gets to be a bit much;
Is there any authentic laughter left, in this post modern Rome?
Even the real sounds artificial now-
Perhaps we’ve stayed at the gladiator games too long?

The sun’s already burnt us, we're tired and thirsty,
While the entertainments keep playing on and on,
Growing ever thinner, transparent, predictable;
With each dreary season, the same debacle song.

At night we dream, that we’re the newest slaughter,
They're readying to come for; that banging on the door:
No longer far away, swords drawn and at the ready,
The four horsemen are coming;  the apocalyptic four.

It doesn’t matter if you’ve never had religion,
For famine and scourge don’t belong to one creed-
But we're still too busy now, gorging ourselves
On endless dreams of supremacy and need.