Where is the irony and what is the analysis of this poem?
Your average tourist: Fiftly. 2.3
Times married. Dressed, this year, in Ferdi Planthower
Originals. Odds 1 to 9
Against her strolling past the Embassy.
Today at noon. Your average terroist:
Twenty-five. Celibate. No use for trends,
At least in clothing. Mark, though, where it ends.
People have come forth made of colored mist.
Unsmiling on one hundred million screens
To tell of his promp phone call to the station,
"Claiming responsibility" - devestation
Signed with a flourish, like the dead wife's jeans.
2007-03-05
04:27:52
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