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Boxes
Here behind this screen
hidden by a curtain
we make our choices
from freshly printed slips
then after dutifully boxing
we retire to our own boxes
our beers and unfulfilled dreams
to watch the wranglers
With their handshaking routines
their hallmark smiles
making promises we know
they won’t keep but what
The hell, we sent our boys
to the east didn’t we
and they came back boxed
didn’t they. some businessman
Just like you and I made
a killing in wooden boxes
another printed those millions
of unused slips now fluttering
To garbage heaps, pocketed
wads of deflating dollars c’mon
who cares we all did our duty
democracy that’s what we call it
© Johnmichael Simon
2008
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