The sun’s a painted papier-mâché,A prop upon a dusty tray.The sky is gray and full of sleaze,A perfect backdrop for the disease.The zombies aren’t in shambling hordes,But sitting in the corporate boards.It’s all tricks, no tasty sweets,Every day is Halloween. The ghosts aren’t chains and spooky sounds,They’re dotted lines on survey grounds.They’re “former tenants” and

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