The persuasive bespoke oligarchs
Leer earnestly from the screen,
While drowning in their rabid barks
We dress as in a dream:
I draw the latest razor-blade
Softly over my throat,
You oil your face for the masquerade
Before holding up my coat
Open and empty as an animal skin
Or a robe held for a surgeon,
So I lean over and cut my way in
To the day whose end is uncertain
Christopher Woodall
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/good-morning-16/
