Funereal Scene

Steve Pearson Poetry

Here lies the sorry end
Of the aged nation-state
Shot like a tethered dog
To appease the feted “great”,

And “good” of the watching
Money-honey men
Determined to return
The wretched to their pen.

They, the moneyed few,
Defend their callous cull
While they, the huddled masses
Strive to survive the lull

This is what we are now
We’re done with caring who
Or why the people struggle.
The nation-state is through.

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