Neoliberalism constructed a hallway
for me to walk down
and admire all the gold, shiny, silver, oily stuff
I can't have
and a million plastic hands to shake
So that I might make it
nowhere
The paternal hand of the state
pats me on the back
and sends me notes to
collect debt
for the bankers, the bankers
I've got hallways and highways and byways
Toasters and jail bars and factories
But I have no one left to talk to
except myself,
myself.
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