A blade of bread

Nothing goes inside this tank,

   It’s called a bank.

Not even the pay

   Which used to flow

Like the sound of music.

   Yes, the hills were alive

And loaded.

   Now we crawl around,

Inside this dry acquarium.

   There are no fishes or loaves

With with which to conjure miracles.

   Not even a blade of bread

With which to bury the dead.

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