Martin O'Neill - Suits

Minds cloaked in grey
They wander the battlefield
Weilding their blades
Of nonchalance, the battle lost.
The cry of the wounded, unheeded
Cut short by the bayonets
Of the grey ones
Used without emotion
Just a soupcon of a sneer.
The Auditors pick over
The corporate bones
Of a life's work.
A family dream
Vulture necks in polycotton
Outside it starts to rain
The sandwiches go stale
Tick tock.

Martin O'Neill

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