I look to a cornerstone/with the dew of age and corrosion./They have their sons to rear/I have but myself./Morning brings on some kind of exit, in pain, radio news of traffic where I don’t venture/but I see different traffic,/ I’m aware of my traffic,/ I traffic in paltry sums, where the money goes ,seems not to matter,/it comes from my grasp./It’s this game, grow older;/the demand for quick response/ that just isn’t there./The case of a man on both legs,/ palms outstretched,/ waiting for what he’s lost./Im a believer in a work squad ,with pick and shovel, /break out in a sweat at every instance/many empires, with millions of souls/ I look through these eyes /rooted in the tube of the gut. /They blare their strange gospel, in hotels filled by only magicians./Their disease represents a burden,/it belongs to the sense of a gravekeeper,/ inspecting a burial plot.

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