these jockeys of the radio waves
saddlers of the telling box
of prepared visions
these superficial elite
the voice of the day you know
pimps of mammon
kinks of the castle
they need not art
nor integrity
nor can they stomach either
they need only to open wide the sluice gates
that the gold may pour
into the hands of their masters
and whore keepers…
they speak no art
nor integrity
only what the masses wantonly scream for
to satisfy their insatiable lust for things to consume
and we raise our drunken cups
these opaque vessels
and belch a toast
to those with nothing to say
but with many, many words
words
so empty
so deafening…
so utterly filled with noise
whilst under the table
their Lords and masters
wring their hands with glee
for the pickings are bountiful
because the slaves think not
and are willingly led to believe
that they are free
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