Tuesday, April 7, 2009

I am.

The bank branches out, leaving money and sense all bagged up,
Sitting on the point scales of Cash Converter justice.
Cash cows dance Bollywood, Hindu statues of sacred account.
Quiet riots with twenty handshakes, world wide pride doesn't hide anymore.
National irrational, call me on Tuesday,
Every decade fades into dirty facades,
And the only one who realized was left in the ward.

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