This vacuous, clattering spectacleHas collected the heart-beats of a nation.Greed, like a gorged Machiavelli,Slumps down in the green plush seatAnd wonders whether it has not blundered,While a sentimental song,Like a kindly infant,Interferes with the clink of coins.Hatred, juvenile and deformed,Earns the smirking oblivionOf fat women mangling sound.The wrangling babble of ignoranceTurns to silence underneathThe opium of innuendoes.Acrobats appear and seemTo be raping phantom loversNo longer beautiful and freshBut mechanically endured.Part of the audience is alsoA battered stoic clasping worn-out mistresses.Clog-dancers enervateThe thumping martyrs of their feet,And chorus-girls offer the lines of their bodiesWith whining voices.Dreams are cheap, and green plush seatsAppropriately, snugly holdThe expensive hallucinations.
This vacuous, clattering spectacleHas collected the heart-beats of a nation.Greed, like a gorged Machiavelli,Slumps down in the green plush seatAnd wonders whether it has not blundered,While a sentimental song,Like a kindly infant,Interferes with the clink of coins.Hatred, juvenile and deformed,Earns the smirking oblivionOf fat women mangling sound.The wrangling babble of ignoranceTurns to silence underneathThe opium of innuendoes.Acrobats appear and seemTo be raping phantom loversNo longer beautiful and freshBut mechanically endured.Part of the audience is alsoA battered stoic clasping worn-out mistresses.Clog-dancers enervateThe thumping martyrs of their feet,And chorus-girls offer the lines of their bodiesWith whining voices.Dreams are cheap, and green plush seatsAppropriately, snugly holdThe expensive hallucinations.
This vacuous, clattering spectacleHas collected the heart-beats of a nation.Greed, like a gorged Machiavelli,Slumps down in the green plush seatAnd wonders whether it has not blundered,While a sentimental song,Like a kindly infant,Interferes with the clink of coins.Hatred, juvenile and deformed,Earns the smirking oblivionOf fat women mangling sound.The wrangling babble of ignoranceTurns to silence underneathThe opium of innuendoes.Acrobats appear and seemTo be raping phantom loversNo longer beautiful and freshBut mechanically endured.Part of the audience is alsoA battered stoic clasping worn-out mistresses.Clog-dancers enervateThe thumping martyrs of their feet,And chorus-girls offer the lines of their bodiesWith whining voices.
Dreams are cheap, and green plush seatsAppropriately, snugly holdThe expensive hallucinations.
Printing ServiceCompanyChicago