The modern next-to-the-highway life
is an autonomous drone, without a mind or 
preferences, it enters the house and declares:
We were here, we are here, and we will always
be here. Every sparrow knows to go an octave
up to get the point across the constant hum
of the civilizational vehicle: one man, five
seats, and places to be. Some of us have wings 
as well, and our port of call will never sleep,
if ticket sales edge in on our morale. Green
days are sun-swept reminders: there is no
departure from our sound lounge, where 
the smokers are now outnumbered by 
noise puffers, the unspeaking rattlers 
who won't exactly threaten, but if 
you get too close, a deft deafness
will be dealt to two scoundrel

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