in cynic adverati

The social lace of now has ants of sell,
who work to place a toil in user hands,
to tear a burst of cash. And if a tell
reports a rush of sell is not, or stands
are down, the "Nice Day" fake of cheer decide
to push the sump with press upon the eyes,
to shout the anthems of their ware in lied
and platted tune. Because they advertise,
their silver's worn to want. We users sarc
amongst ourselves the namings of desire:
when invocations made are met, we lark
a ware for get. If sellers need of hire
the cheery shouting prats, it's clear the wrap
they shout about is dreadful very crap.

poem

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