Tears
the people in crowds are dots
of static
hooked on telephones
you can tell what they're after
like the ghosts on Pac-Man
as predictable as a drink at a bar
conversations like clockwork
carrying plastic motives up their sleeves
munching on pop songs and hairstyles
in invisible circles
of exciting stagnation club reason to live
they breathe fast food and read easy pictures
and wake up early
they know how to keep their clean and closed mind
and mask
looks so real
they have a taste for potatoes and possibly recycling
and their tennis shoes are generally politically correct
they don't cry
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