Cleaners
To have all the money in the world
That was dropped onto the ground
Every day, would uniform richness
But that isn't the way it is
Eyes glued to the pavement?
Head hung to the streets?
To every place trampled
There it goes
A poor, poor presence
Trying to have it all
Out of gas for everything
Lucidly latched onto a hopeful head trip
Wearing masks to guise dreams whilst knowing
Its belly will not go up in flames.
Penurious promise shall control all
When the presence does nothing
But observe.
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