he sits writing out checks
for the precious sunk in faces he can picture in his mind,
but might not look similar.
and his own daughter with the fancy dress
sits at their kitchen table
and picks on her own bones for meat that he won't give her.

throw her away
like you do when your half done with your supper.
and they're all watching you live the upper class life
while they tightly grasp in the palm of one hand
everything they've worked for.

clean your faces
your hearts don't matter.
 
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