Few fermented paper cups,
emptied in stolen gulps,
and left to rot in a soggy pile
within a junkyard for verbs.
Sideshows of the miserables,
governed by demigods in war
across an ocean, for gold;
men are men, so says the idiot-box.
... Dying for bets while sleep-walking
through fixed matches of life,
laughing in arrogance while failing to
contain the bile from a whithered liver.