Poetry

Multitudes of men forming lines like ants
Quickly moving as if they knew their wants
Going somewhere along the edge of time
Only to find some acts of pantomime

Some happily buy their favorite toys
Others riding proudly like hot cowboys
In wagons powered by liquid horses
Even sometimes filled with blooming roses

But most of their ears can not hear a cry
Whether from a lad or from passers by
For the tune pods like tentacles that  bind
Those small satellite disks to be unkind

Hence, its sound waves can never penetrate
To their insensitive bosoms to date