Postapocalyptic Present, shine like lipStick
poetic scribble by Bob Axell 2009

 

The world is not what it seems to be
Gold it shines, and it gleams indeed
It sparkles and whines and leans agreed
Against the great worlds economy

The bank is banked, it has its stead
Believed it's free, the gold leaves to sea
The bank is angry, it leaps to meet
The gold that bleats of trial diceat

It tries to slice the gold right in two
But with arms of paper it lies in view
With broken bones, agony undertoned
It loaths alone for ample decades

It grows like foam, then pops and fuzzles
Away, away, awither