TRAIN OF PROGRESS By spilled blood oiled; by captive dreams driven; by stacks of green pulp fed, the mad train of progress, carrying its privileged passengers at warp speed to nowhere, charges madly along its finite ochre track laid down by worker-slaves moonlighting. A rumbling shakes the earth; black smoke belches in the evening sky; a mournful whistle blows: for all must see, all must hear the passage of that awful train of progress... A patient earth has endured many long years since the tracks were first laid and the train set in motion to encircle the planet in a vise-like grip: but lo! Where have they gone, those hallowed times of progress? Only a skeleton crew remains in desperation seeking to keep the mad machine rolling. Many passengers have had to dis-embark as their stacks of green pulp became ashes; the flow of innocent blood is fast drying up, and many a captive has broken free of the baleful hypnotic eye. Denied its lies, its blood, its green pulp the train is slowing down as a refreshing wind blows gently over the earth's healing wounds sowing peace and harmony in its wake but sitting sadly on a rusting track the morbid still bemoan the passing of that killer train of progress!