The industry
Is dancing above our heads
An alternative reality
So much more pleasing
Than the making of beds
The punching of clocks
The regimens of diets and pills
Tap dancing and drum rolls
Someone kissing someone while someone is bleeding
Guns are drawn though real police seldom shoot
Credits and panning and praising and frothing
Casting the lost horizon
In a sickening smug sunset
The envelope, please
And the winner is
The illusion of mind over matter
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