They plod flat-footed over pavements,
beer bellies sagging over belts,
their souls unknown to life's amazements,
sad snowmen that harsh history melts.
What do they think, these formless creatures,
these poor reflections of what could be?
Devoid of life and its bright features,
their hearts unknown to mystery.
Where do they trudge, these mindless ogres,
these zombies of their unused time?
Their lives are flat and false and bogus,
their slow steps wet and filled with slime.
Why do they come, these loose-lipped muppets,
why don't they stay in their own lands?
Their jaded gaze is that of puppets
attached to strings that lift their hands.
And when the end them then approaches
what will they say of their short stay?
That they circled life in coaches
and that they'd like another day.