Mourn

I mourn for a world
that gulps pink slips
in the most futile of toasts
to a non-waking dream
of how to spend it.

We'll burn all the grandeur
to be warm for a few days,
then, when all is gone,
and mostly forgotten,
what will be made of our rags?
A final bonfire banal?
Is there any courage left,
or are we truly without honor
or strength, fat and tired?

From the East, the boxes
parachuted, get ready
to dress the beggar's dress.
Not the designer-brand
100$ beggar-like t-shirt,
but the real shit.