Go In Box, Got E Pail, Gone Win Doe

Cavalry rations don't forget the horses, these transitory mediums 
Don't gallop for food; they are each fairly free at an unfair price, 
Negotiated to nil and dearth, we fight our battles against the hearse
Waiting with an advertisement for the number one local morgue
Bannered across its haunches. It hurts, the knowledge, that's where our
Contemporary troubles rush in: the hole in the wall that we 
Kept putty over for generations has split and the cave is no longer
A prison, it's a tire fire, a garbage blaze, and we breathe deep
Hoping for the heights of knowing and getting various alien
Growths in our minds who will never be satiated under 
Future additional information conditions.

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