Digs

Money is spreading thin from coast to coast.
Too little butter over too much toast.

World in war over a mutual lie.
Currency’s fake; it’s pursuit, our black eye.

Those who’ll come next will excavate our tombs.
Assumptions born over what’s in our rooms.

Plastics & papers; our mobile tender.
From framed tech on walls, was our god rendered.

Screens in landfills & inside our caskets.
Fair guess, we arrived in hell by baskets.