Poor Man's Pride

On the body of this edifice,    
on the wasps and brown rats of the ground,  
"If my peers can work themselves to death,  
I'll fester too in my father's clothes,"    
grits as smile    
and devises plump hymn like the coops of young but apple stuffed-chickens,    
so drugged out to step    
center-right of the pump and circumstance brigade  
stood watch with beneficactor's concealed teets    
in open-carry platitude.    
   
People are born, breed, die,    
on sacrament of a love.    
They stammer, leaning here, bloated out,    
breaking their tongues on 2.5 coats of copper,    
subject themselves to the role of needing an extra hammer.    
 
Hey, there's no ass for a nail.    
   
Rumping up on the television,    
tuning libidos to foreign import,    
while domesticating sweet romance to a role play.    
   
Much good food    
to show for in the citrine mined at an artery mouth.    
That rut does the diamond well    
to keep bubbling    
down a tartar pit.    
   
Pray to religion he doesn't blame the world,    
to family and medicine,    
that she doesn't light up the whole world,    
and just dies with hands' veins wriggling dry like tapeworms,  
in the clank of metal voice pressed through collapsing lungs  
against the swollen ridges of the voice box bell walls,  
and memories sparsed by spots like sundial    
for all that humidity,    
that sparks the flora of fungi,    
to then consume that poor man in prompt    
before the poor one's novel can fully run.