The Machine by Keith Kitchen


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The machine is broken.
Come, let us laugh at its broken gears.
Fat, fear crazed mobs are charging the monks,
Martyrs alive with joy and fear.

Behold the repairman
As he feebly
Attempts to stay the damage.
But, now, he is a martyr also.

Call the undertaker, he has much business today
For the blackened robes oflike men are foruitiuos
To be relieved of their duties
And are sent to the showers.

A dozen blond-haired black men are at my door,
I invite them in and we partake of a dinner
Of fear and hatred, for they are prejudiced of
My white skin and I of their blond hair.

The flywheel moves and the gears turn
One last revolution before dissolving into a
Molten mass of melting pot societies
While a multitude of deformed dwarves sing gaily.