The House of Replicas

Steve Burge

Hot from the trader in heirlooms
And knocked-off stock,
The ornaments are posted to their stations
Or marked down in wasted years.
Already itís old hat.
Someone says Bring on the clones
But no-one laughs.
Fake Rolexes measure the silence.
Maybe you were there before
In a previous life,
Looking for a souvenir, something retro,
Something thatís really you.
Donít bother to show us.
We are the guys
Who sell this junk.
We get to eat,
You get the glory.
Itís called business.

E-mail Steve

Panic! Poetry

Panic! Art Gallery

Panic! Links