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burn your cargo pants, shove those to go coffee cups, water bottles and travel-sized wipes wrapped in camo shirts up your foreign asses my lack of empathy for wellington arches is made up by the forgotten patterns on these bus seats this city and its beauty are tarnished by coach tours; we come to see the past, to revere in the great footfalls once littering these streets-- we, the locusts a feeding frenzy of furrowed brows feeling special in the filtered sun