The Second Circle

Standard

With sequestered trends the highlit hollyply

cut our hours, leash our eyes

cap our ears with cheap, chalky sand

set us marching in a ring, and sing

a sleighing song, with cracking quips

and two-bit foremen

with a lark

will lead their escorts

to the ark

They’ll cull them out and comb their hair

to frame our faces, stain our skin

spin our heads ’round a plastic lens

kept for turning our yearn to learn

a burning dance, the twisting hips

to rugged beats

we’ll take our chance

with a bottle of shame

and cheap romance



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