And all the fleeced have gone to sleep.
The last chips collected, there are no cheap
Replacement modes to gather wits or
Count what bodes ill or otherwise.
As flies pick the crumbs of buffets
Closed for the brief time it takes
To clean the commodes before the next
Dreamers arrive to wish upon the roll
Of the die that never ends, but only
Contends with the lack of dreams outside.