They walk 140 steps a minute marching unconsciously to Mecca-troplis
farmed with enough palm oil to keep dependants tethered to the fold
They queue in erratic designs of civil lines tired of concealing their apathy with virtue, disenchanted with the collective, resenting the regime and their regiment
They stampede battery style to herd in pens
where modified inter-rivalries replace moos with stunted abbreviations of 'sorry' and puffs of submission
This is the tallest they'll stand and the widest their senses will radar till same time same place tomorrow. Kenetically homed in on the absolute conviction that they are the cogs in the wheel that need to be fed and diligence is a cruder oil than the one that runs
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