Walk softly
They carry big sticks
Grow under them
Grow from them
You are not you to them
You are a number, another dollar
Waiting to be cashed in
Deposited into their pocket
The same pocket which late night pocket pool addresses their familiar booth of love
Reaping on our pitfalls, our demise
Bury us in their old shoe box
Forever under their feet
Cleaning their dirt with our bitten tongues
Walk softly
They carry big sticks
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