Whose tale this is I think I know,
That darkness where the daydreams grow.
All made of gingerbread and cream,
It’s not a place I want to go.
I don’t like a collective dream,
A much attenuated meme.
Out here at least the air is gray,
And people only what they seem.
They think they’re more and sometimes
say
A better world with better pay
Would treat them like the folks they
were
And compensate them where they play.
There’s little cake and little myrrh,
Simplicities I much prefer.
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