Industrial Thoughts

Photo by jack murrey on Unsplash

Who’s playing industrial baseball?
That one went down the drain, nearly the end.
The meaning of life in all of that?
Commentators drowned in shame, justifying long rounds in the busk.
Even Roman dictionaries asked how come they wait behind the fence, the wrong side, the only side, that side, yellow card.
Referee whistles for a water break and a cheerleading snack.
Before someone would notice intercourse of a lost audience.
And leave, unhappy.
We cannot afford that to happen.
Said a cloud and poured a purple rain.
A factory taste, because money is to be made.
While hotdogs are served to every American boy and girl.