Final Greed

We’re running headlong on a curvaceous path,

Lit up with lights that twinkle.

We’re running headlong toward a barricade,

Neck to neck,

In some sore footrace,

Our breaths fogging up,

The Christmas night,

Our feet pounding the Swastika Santa,

Out of WWII hibernation.

We don’t know when we will hit,

The lights blind,

But we keep running,

Guns over shoulders,

And money greening our gambling pockets.