When in Rome

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Cumulus gathering high above fortune five hundred, looks like vultures fly colors, funny, the enemy's short supply of numbers means death to country clubbers, with a posh little gasp, lets hope they're fast runners. Blast apart the republic, sit back, and watch it all crumble. We'll all walk amidst mangled cars and rubble. Sunshine fortified on the asphalt's glaze, fresh blood on ragged banners wave for clouds to shade the day. We can share a picnic dream or we can snare another scheme. We could rust away together with the rest of this debris. I see night terrors of a different degree invade the vision, and never fade to wisdom. Semi automatics inventory doom, combatants still active clear from room to room. Jitterbugs like cannibal factions disgusting actions instructional videos on how to clean your pistol's attachments. Bootleg fashions, and radio static, the breeze carries death on it's back at all hours like acrid flowers. Gather up the posse, the explosives and the jackals. Circle around in an hour and wait for Sgt. Asshole. Scattered newspapers stay the same as the dates between then and now extend and tend to shake the nerves of even the most war torn veterans. There once was a cry to increase the peace, now there ain't no supplies coming to aid disaster relief.

Created: Nov 09, 2010

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protopatrick Document Media