Joyous shouting from the

summer streets harks back to a

simpler time that calls 

While poets starve and

artists crawl a few callous 

oligarchs succeed 

Braggadocio

bottoms out by dawn's bell and

bellows your self-doubt 

Billionaires should not

exist, but since they do, we

hear they're edible 

Pluck the ruby-like

fruit straight from the tree and pop

it into your mouth 

You, a Brit, a friend,

picked up an American 

gun, and were then gone

As the train rattles 

down the twisted track the blind

conductor muses