The gang from underground
stinks the same
as a tyrant boss dressed
in haute couture
greasing the board table
with numbers that spread
like women
stale in the odor
of metal
godless under the purple circles
of their eyes
coughing in dry pimpled sarcasm
of bustin' ass
for medical insurance
and a few perks
on the edge of black fashion -
dressed in the shadows
of headless bodies
that cannot weep.

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