His new baby's eyes
Its mother's mouth
Crescent of laughter
A field of bliss
A designer of homes
He sleeps in on workdays
Society won't give him work
An outsider, invisible
Like a rock among rocks
Milk bottles
Rice bin
Mouths
Marlboro
Dark shapes of his duty
Swallowing his vows
It's the only thing to do
So it's the right thing to do
Thirteen tiles before his eyes
At Pong!
Dwindling money in the drawer
Has to be returned
The bristles on his neck, wet
He closes his eyes
At Kong!
His friends look at his hardship
Indentify with him
Just because it's not theirs
At Zimo!
Jets of blue smoke
flush pleasure through alarm
Selling out her love and hopes again
Doesn't seem the right thing anymore
How does he go forward now
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