A nonconformist is born every minute
They pump their fists in the air
In lock step they yell
Non-con-form-ity
As one voice
They are new and different
They are well dressed
They pretend they are blond
Their parchment like skin
Stretched over sculpted cheek bones
They are unique
They sit in the median
With a sign around their neck
In rags dejected
Will work for Food
Their situation is different
Lives chip and shatter
Spilling tempests
Without sop to our conscience
Leaving stains that linger
All the same
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