In cold and through the swamps,
The thieves are walking, grouped in two,
With chains crawling at their legs,
As if working in muds of sweat.
The instant ramen is ready.
It's night. It's raining..
A heavy spoon, and big as a shovel,
Spoons the soup, just in one move,
And gargles it in an instant.
Few have killed,
Few serving terms for a theft, or a dream..
Irrelevant what others did:
Dozed off the rich, or frightened thee poor.
Green and bruised like zombies,
Grimaced from the shoulders, hip and legs,
In the hot bowl of soup, with yellow steams,
A pile of blood, and dreams.
