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The Wax Museum

Everyone gets fake,
In the wax museum,
You're never ever called,
Either sir or mam.
Personalities don't matter,
You cannot be flattered,
And nothing bad can be said.
They mold your face,
And comb your hair,
And your eyes are locked,
Into a stare.
You won't be alone,
Because it's like
Someone's been cloned,
When you walk into,
The wax museum.
You cannot sit,
You cannot talk,
You cannot move,
You cannot walk.
Thing's aren't real,
It seems so surreal,
And it's silent as can be.

©1999-2019 Steve Bujanow

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Copyright©1999-2019 Steve Bujanow, Neocortex. All Rights Reserved.

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