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Falling suns
You’d think it’d be pretty,
To see a falling sun,
Yet here in the city,
It seems much less fun.
There’s nowhere to hide,
From the heat and the fire,
No oceans to find,
Only jobs looking to hire.
Yet the pay is atrocious,
And everyone is depressed,
The manager has halitosis,
And there’s civil unrest.
Justice is dead,
The courts have All said as such,
Maybe I should go to bed,
But we can't do that much.
Copyright ©
Star Henwood
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