12 Aug, 2011 - W.M. Rivera
I hate to see that evening Sun bite down
one ruler for another, one America
for the next, the race starts over, fresh
forgetfulness. Blank slate.
Firms fix to win
unless the grid browns down, turns black;
contender nations bud; the rush is on,
the riders high and winning’s all.
Overawed tots pop and thrive, sugar their thighs.
Hetty Greens titivate on Corporate War.
What fun! And never-failure banks fleece the sky
while teeny-show-me-yours repeat cock-sure clichés.
And they’re off! Pristine, the chargers gallop
bigger than grand – loser nags steered underground.