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These poems, if you could call them that, are a small gesture, a hand that taps you on the back gently, sometimes a nudge, sometimes a shove, to remind you there is more to life than prime time, more to life than knowing the color of some starlet’s panties, or being led by the nose by the manipulators - big business, the ruling class, organized religion
- to keep you quiet, docile and plaint and fatten you for the kill.
- From the introduction.