When people come to visit me, they say my city is stupid,
That its architecture is a hotchpotch of cliches,
And that they were expecting something far better from the advertising.

Where are the people, they say? Where is the vibe?
If this is the city of the future, please take me to the parking lot of the present.
Is there electricity in this monsteropolis? Is there heat? Is there love?

At what distance am I meant to enjoy this thing, from which perspective?

The plastic freeways are made of lightweight thoughts,
The toy towers are neither playful nor meaningful,
The cars are on circuits large enough to achieve the effect of being endless,
But not large enough to avoid the effect of being pointless,
And all in all, this city is a waste, implemented with a tasteless precision,
I wouldn’t want to look at it, they proudly announce, as a low-brow work of art, let alone live in it.

Thanks, I say, but you do seem to be confused, this is not your blissful suburban farm,
This is not your grandmother’s shell-shaped condo complex with porpoise pond,
This is my city, this is my home, this is my driveway,
Come in, cruise our streets, visit the Eiffel Mahal,
Get the static electricity sucked right out of you and all we can say is-
You will not forget your visit to the Monsteropolis.

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