A cardboard cut-out chatters on the box.
Robots clap and laugh. He earns millions.
How does he do it? How does he do it?
Some plastic sculpture sits on a throne
and they crawl towards it, they lick its spit.
How does it do it? How does it do it?
Sleek suits laugh, tell us how to live
but never go in silent rags, never dine on ashes.
How do they do it? How do they do it?
A delicate soul praises poetry, art
but all she thinks about is money money money.
How does she do it? How does she do it?
And why do we sit here – all of us – farting like slobs,
too fat to stand up and smash the screen?
Why do we do it? Why do we do it?
The grave is dug in the living room floor,
it waits. In the rain a stranger bangs on the door.
Why don’t we see him? Why don’t we see him?
The half-mad tramp staggers down the street,
gazes at the sky, speaks with angels.
Does he alone get it? Does he alone get it?