Glossy
In loops of chaos you bring me your worries,
your TV radiation and unsmelled gasses.
A training day, an industry standard,
all
the
things
we
have
not
invented.
The tumble dries, the deadlove flies,
all lying on your window cill, and still,
I am not for talking, I am not for sale.
My answer is not to your question,
and the weeds?
they have all overgrown,
grown
all
over
your
mobile
throne.
And I have worries of my own.
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