It's a long queue of people.
A line longer than your average cocaine hit.
It looks like they have heartache.
Their clothes hidden by the torsos of flies.
Pallid, frail skin - tragically thin,
It's no queue for the supermarket
Nor is it for the corporate bank.
Behind them, a billboard reads:
"I'm dying for a can of this pop!"
Graffiti stains of a mocking 'e'
On the end of its shallow sentence.
It starts to snow,
The litter of ripped up pornography
Dancing to the mellow, cool breeze
Of a tense, silent hell, the odd shriek of a crow.
The people stand face forward,
Eroding to vicious whispers of winds slowly.
A repressive voice startles their vomit within
Followed by a head-on bombardment of bullets.
The quote on the billboard now reads:
"I'm dying of h ope"