Sick of Plastic

The level of poverty in my town is abhorrent.

They have taken the grocery money and bought paint instead. The houses look pretty but the children are licking the floor under the refridgerators for sustenance. It is all looks and no cooks. But, my oh my, don't we just have a good thing going? With our HD TV DVD EZ USD We are so poor that we can't afford whole words anymore. We can't pay attention to the very essence of life, our life.
Everything goes on the auction block. The slaves are bragging at the prices they fetch. They are paid in paper for a soul that is priceless. Even Faustus feels rejuvinated. His deal struck, more a wager, with a good chance to win. And ultimately did he not repent? Was there a clause, perhaps a Saintly Claus that let him off the hook? He had the smarts to trade for more smarts, not trinkets, and the devil thought, I'll swell his head so he won't fit through the exit door. The devil learned his lesson. Don't swell heads no more. Now he swells wallets. Fat with fiat money and pipe dreams. Dumb fucks.

The level of poverty in my town is abhorrent. I'm the only one to point it out, the stench of inflation and isolation. Of plastic burning the hands of those who took comfort in an easy bye. I am but one canary. I know what I miss and stomp my foot. But what does a lowly canary know. Birdbrain.