Evolved in blood from cannibal parts,
born to play games before dying,
some enjoy poker, others play hearts
in business-politics, war-science, fine arts
of death denied where Olympiad lying
re-made a World for winners and losers,
their savage millenniums of tribalized
beating and stealing, dealing, cheating and spying
imprinted everyone as victim or user.
"Please stop your games!" cry some unrealized
romantics longing for love and still trying
to visualize free of survival abusers.
"What dreamers!" sneer the tranquilized
tricksters, their empire of wealthy flying
high over cities of spell-bound lame excusers
hating the poet too deeply demoralized
to ignore the omens of psychic scrying
(the water equation is shorter by six)
so privily their self-swivel-chair whirled,
anxious to pre-empt any pumped up accusers,
a quiet killing to be rid of that prying,
that sighing and crying such versified frying
over some trumped up end of the World (?!)
Better foot-base, hand-basket, leg-suckering kicks
all couched in safe home video viewing
in love with the games before dying.

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John Talbot Ross