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  

Raise your hands towards the 

light or wait to be razed by 

the dwellers of night