folk zero

look, lo,
lower
still,
and behold
the mortal manifest,
flesh infested with
pride,
and undecided ways
with which to make
the world pay,
the fist shaking
past this, and 
towards
creators,
if any,
ready for variety-
low grade combustion
of
some ancient type
computates about his rights
and why,
oh! why?
we’d ever bother be
why,
vanity begs
do this, to he?

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