Bottle Cap-italism, a Poem

Red aluminium can upon the desk,
White scribe line is the graced print;
I become an advertiser through it.

Key chain reps a galaxy far far away,
From shirt to shoes, I represent the capitalist.
I am the walking billboard for the masses.

What if I advertised myself,
The books most vital to my soul etched into skin,
Dialogues of Plato tableau-depicted on my back?

I’d become the amalgam of ideas,
No closer to representing myself,
Still advertising the other.

To advertise myself, I must be bare,
Empty of all branded clothes,
(How the steer snarls when branded! )
Empty of all branded ideas.

Oh capitalism, my birthright,
Wouldn’t it be better
If I didn’t have to advertise at all?

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