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trf May 2018
your "friends" that we meet,
i forget their names,
my calloused palms are greased,
by their  squeezing hands

i remember one's a banker,
or he could have said a thief,
his ******* words were flanked,
by my disbelief

i was held hostage,
you were a smiling drone,
i remember when i lost ya,
to Stockholm Syndrome

their Heirloom Suffix changes,
on tuxedos and trust funds,
my rental wears just fine,
i'm not a "chosen" one

   sparing breath from gettin' angry,
   i excused myself for a smoke,
   these times they are a changin',
   what's gonna cease this joke

   shorting stocks on tuesday,
   while playing ball in hand,
   honey, how could you lose me,
   busted seams this man

I am not a banker,
I am not a saint,
I'm not to be trusted either,
And won't place the blame.
I am not a proxy,
I am an astronaut,
But this distant world you live on,
Might not be your fault.

— The End —