the numbers
rating: +12+x

haven't you heard, boy?
there's gold
in these spacious skies,
these amber waves of grain,
these purple mountain majesties.

we'll be rich, my boy!
you'll have all the
chicago broadway tickets
and private jets to antigua
that you could ever want.

all we need to do
is dig up the ground,
tear out the ore,
and find somewhere
to bury the waste.

and who cares
if we paint the sky black
and suffocate children
with the thick smog,
if we burn down the fields
and leave their towns
to starve and writhe,
if we shatter the mountains
and crush villages
under the rubble?

we don't need to worry,
even if the earth
gives up on gasping for air
under our boot.

after all,

there's always mars.

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