They shout as you sleep deep in your shrine
Of banks, of ports…the regular sixty-nines,
Their voice more volatile than your troubled times
They are the Pariahs of known Parliamines!
Like the woods, they’ve taken fire after blows
From outsides and within; On mysteries they know,
On backbones and bellies, that’ve thrown out their ribs
Into a dome of weapons that clatters as you sleep.
You panic, you lineup, you repeat the word nation
That has ever seen you detach your organs, and ration
To become such a neuron, You may not understand
Their ways so cobweb to tell life from the land!
And lives for those lands, as Parliamines change faces
So does its foes, from spinning wheel to bayonet;
“A fence makes good neighbours”, that’s what we all are
Though you may think it as a house, and its members.
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