Never fear, we have nothing to lose,
so long as we posses our bleached bones,
and our grinning, broken teeth.
But take the Buffalo of the old west for instance.
That vast slaughter of beasts was only consummated
when all the bones were gathered up and ground to dust.
There is no dignity in death,
so we have nothing to fear.
I suggest that high finance can have my bone-dust,
and create a fine tincture to sooth the industrial artifice.
That is, sooth the industrial contraptions
and quiet the deafening paper-shuffling,
the legions of middle managers clearing their throats.
If we are all locked into the death spiral,
what can we do but throw ourselves beneath the nominal wheels of progress?
Say a prayer to Saint Sebastian, and kneel in the Cold Stone Creamery.
Aye, a fine cupful of rum, to spit in your eye.
A pox upon their heads, a pox!
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