Layabouts in the Roundabout

He wonders what
the ruckus
is about.
All that shouting
and banging on pots
and pans.
Targeting a timeless parade,
of hucksters in clown suits,
liars of high pedigree;
thieves.

Bandits - robbing souls
in the dead of night,
wandering the halls of another man’s
heart
while picking his pockets.
Wicked little demons.  Bank
managers of stolen virtue.
Gnawing termites,
hollowing out caverns behind
false promise,
stashing bits and pieces
of labor’s love
to feed
fools of the future.

Occupy.
Defy.
Seize this little circle
beyond
the barricades,
make it our own - watching
black machines of domination
surround
us.

Layabouts in the roundabout.
Spittle in the eye.
A poke in the gut.
Abattoir of gluttons
feeding from our trough.

by Buckston on Friday, November 25, 2011

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