"It's possible to be at a point in your life where you have too many scars, or not enough scars."

I have no sympathy for you, you soft knuckled ape.

Mouths agape, a bear trap for demeaning sociality,
fake smiles and ember eyes,
catch the draydel betting
2:1 for split pea lies.

Hands are gnarled, but nails are trim,
Hat empty, but pints full to brim.
Jaws wired hard,
but man-tooth saws still cut the flesh,
forming to your red tape mold,
decay to swamp and sweets to lard.

The death rattle comes at glorious sunrise, 
a new dawn for the war machine.
Bolts rusted and tetanus veins leaking,
But we, the Knife remain, so cold and keen.

This is our wicker history.
This is YOURS.

Money is such a petty disease