It’s 98 at Midnight

Listening to the clickety-clank of the rotating electric box
In this forsaken playground replete with invisible clocks
Amidst the streaming synod of faces sweating far and wide
An implicit sanction of a mythic civility long ago died.

It’s 98 at midnight in the land of angels lost
Comprehending little of desperation’s cost
We toss wages away as if they were dust
Slavering greed salts avaricious lust.

Throngs of lemmings gawk in a Margaritaville haze
At wondrous constructions dyed, hidden backhanded plays
Bargain hunters scurry in frenzied discounts’ search
Others looking down on them from golden ruler’s perch.

It’s 98 at midnight here on the desert floor
Air conditioned heaven is beyond each and every door
Invited to roll away our life’s worth in seconds
The striptease in the teddy winks as she beckons.

Bet-crazed disciples crowd for a chair at the devil ‘s table
Laying down their terminal assets, dysfunctions enabled
Hiding their losses from their drunk spouses to wonder
Deceptive self-destruction tearing families asunder.

It’s 98 at midnight in the billion-bulb night
Hedonism outlandish, golden calf’s delight
Creatures of the dark present credentials aloud
Pandering their poison with every tug on the crowd.

Yes, it’s 98 at midnight for these denizens of the deep
Aware of all the opulence but none they get to keep
“Oh, I can win it back,” one after another exclaims,
But no one believes they’ll ever even their games.