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Romans, Romans lend me your ear. Listen to sound waves carried through the Age of Iron, Age of Industry, Age of of Self. The Ides of March tolls for the Rust Belt, Appalachian Hills, and Tobacco roads. Tattered nation under god indivisible divided by economic mathematics. Bottom lines make unemployment lines, lies sold to new Romans with old souls. Fed bread, fattened for the kill. Living for chemical thrills and one trick ponies. Flying rebel flags for lost causes, picket fences separate colored complications. Indigent Romans, Spectators to a last gasp of Circus Maximus, bleeding from the unkindest cut of all..
