Counters in the grass

Eastwardly the raspberry bush grows

Anchored, down in the grass with twelve counters

Each day one disappears, taken on travels of mysterious places

I tie my shoelaces, and think of the races

Perfect metaphors for the capitalist people, watching it

The system hits them and as hard, clasping the crop in its hand

The raspberry bush grows nearby, sticking thorns into those taking coins

How many metaphors can you stand? I’m just here, watching the grass and hoping you can know.

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