Radiation Will Be The Judge To Which You Will Testify

Pleasantries of the Burgoise

There it goes again, the munitions factory begins to sparkle,
like the sky from which the bombs are dropped,
 The janitor arrives early to prepare for the days missions,
its difficult work building weapons that destroy harder
The janitor whistles an old latin folk-song,
his sharp notes piercing stale factory air,
like steel harpoons, dancing through the darkness
with enough gusto to make a gold digger swoon
Now the sectors are prepped and ready,
the munitions engineer operates the rotary blades,
slow and steady,
cutting down the world like a solar-sized machete
The blade grows dull from such repititious posturing
so the janitor must work overtime,
and sharpen the blade for another day,
so the war can continue, escort it to new venues,
blowing sisters and brothers away

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