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Michael McGuire
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This Machine Is Broken
He watched from the heart of his weather, He thought from the ache of his pain, He pushed the button of his thirst, To drink the river of his rain.
This machine is broken.
He mined the core of his being, Till the Earth was a naked pit, Then the moot point of his orbit, Threw its gravity in a fit.
This machine is broken.
There was never an answer for the wearing, This machine was made for trash. And the god stamped on his coin, Was the very burden of the cash.
This machine is broken.
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