They are waking up in beds of paired white pillows,

Hitting the wood with callousless feet,

Practicing yoga for forty-five minutes on their heads,

Picking their smiling babies out of satin-lined cradles.

They are eating the steak salad they made this weekend,

After trimming the trees pushing to get a glimpse

Of their red brick houses,

And kissing their wives on the doorstep

Just in time for the Asian market trading,

The next of their millions of bucks begging for release.

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