Slippery Isle A Party Line Poem by James McLain

Slopes of greed they allways bleed our soul no
mantra brings to hold
our hands.

Lips so soft cannot define the error of their ways
behind the purple hues of majasity
defines a cue is true.

Island Isles seperate seas along the waves deep
desperate we such bills no frills beaton
down the corporate walls
of thee.

Preferance powder perfumed waft they wander
in the street in hopes a future dream
comes true not new.

Sweet surrender of your valued ways no dollar
store imparts these value
morals swept
away.