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Post by Rosetta on Oct 25, 2011 18:30:26 GMT
The dying afternoon sun flashes on jagged pains of broken windows high up in the factory's brick walls above the noise of machinery and unending work; iron echoes on iron, workers shout and curse; the mighty engines turn ceaselessly and yet each man is alone knowing unemployment lies round the corner, but who cares about the feckless proletariat? Not I. Not I. My family are entrepreneurs.
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Post by Daphne on Oct 25, 2011 19:00:06 GMT
Who cares? Factory work is SO un-cool!
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Post by Daphne on Oct 26, 2011 9:00:20 GMT
I didn't notice any scansion or metre in this poem. Perhaps you have moved beyond such mediocre poetic devices?
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