Bank Food by Neil Fawcett

They feed us on the banquet of the dead./
Food rotten when first served decades ago,/
now fluffed with mould’s downy hair./

They tell us to eat this shit or die,
so we eat this shit and still we die.

Let’s die with hunger’s rat eating our insides./
Not with rotten food wrapped in the mould/
Of age old lies.

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