Motorcade of flesh;

follow the one in front.

Green grass slopes either side,

but I am content with cyanide

for I have a skip to my stride.


I move in a motion;

conviction and purpose.

I have no regard for the living -

I am the gift that keeps on giving

without any forgiving.


Chained to dull frolicking 

and weary administration.

I am never free.

I can't hope to be

more than a delivery.


Night descends fast

and I swim through the cold.

But the engines keep turning

and I find myself burning

at the end of the river's concerning.


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