Where fakery — or as Holden Caulfiield called it, “phony” — gets celebrated
Like a two-year-old’s birthday party,
One learns to eat or be eaten.
The all-you-can-gorge buffet combats the all-they-can-steal machines,
Those short-change artists that bleed away your work,
Sculpting skeletons from flesh.
Stuff more into your belly — it matter not what but how much — and you could
Or at least break even.
We all must die, rich or broke.
So why not swallow yourself to death?