Justice is a whore,
Her sister Charity a gorgon
In a hall of covered mirrors.
And Mercy? Pity?
A pair of shriveled teats,
Where every beggar hangs
With flaky lips.
Happiness is a finite resource, boy.
Anyone who gives
Clutches whatever else they have
In their pocketed hand.
This? This isn't really much - more of an exercise than an actual developed poem. Ain't got much to say about it.
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