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The Overnight Machine

The overnight machine.

It’s in business from 9pm to 6am:

its location is a matter of a guess;

its meanings are many, and its answers, few;

it seeks to yearn, to swear and to process.

Its workings are nasty, its adherents, shrewd;

its slaves splendid in their desolate devotion;

its nurses are evil, its gas stations, lewd;

its followers included me and you.

So when the overnight machine kicks into gear,

you know, you’ve got it made:

its curses are empty, but its teachings, they’re true;

the likelihood of failure is ten, to the power of two.

But you know you’ve got it made;

you know you’ve earned a coveted spot,

when the overnight machine takes and spills itself;

shakes and hurts itself;

fakes and burns itself:

over and over and over

onto you.

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