The clamoring cries cannot be heard
through the iron-clad gates
where brazen brass bottles
are pushed into the gaping holes
of biscuit-crumbed beards.
Among the silver spoonfuls
they tell tales in libraries
laden with the likes of Dickens:
Please sir, can I have some more?
met only with tremors
of froth-filled melodic laughter.
Beyond the metal mansions
appointed cellulite speakers
snivel black vapur of bile
fogging up mosaic screens
feeding empty words
to small salivating mouths.
The lack of this
the lack of that.
Pudding served with an apology.
Their silver spoons turn to lead
in impoversished hands.
Please Mum, can I have some more?
met only with the trembles
of barren bellies and
mother's quivering lip.
There's no more.
and Big ben's chime is eerily silent when it's time for supper.
