The old newspapers
Discarded on the door steps
Kept in the cold dark storage
On the fields
For others to step on
Use it throwing away
Only the ameeno trucks
Collecting it for commission
Selling it to corporations
The old newspapers
Once minted now lying
Still thinking good
It has been discarded
Forgetting the rules
Tell the truth so be free
So the Musang
On Ides of March
A la “Brutus”
The ameeno truck trundles on
Collecting rubbish selling it as gold
Arm twisting piling commission
The old newspapers
The stories finally true
Somewhere in its pages
No comments:
Post a Comment