Sane or Machine is the man in the window,

Whose coattail seeps through the door, into the streets, and washes out into the cobblestone gutter.

He does not care.  He does not need.  

Sane or Machine is the man in the window,

Who counts his coins to collect his greed, as his mind sags off in the distance. 

He has no hair.  He does not read.

Sane or Machine is the man in the window, 

Whose life has drained all out of prose, whose diction is keeled to bottomless peels, whose morose has complained to us all.

He has no care.  His greed is near.

Sane or Machine is the thing in the window, 

It does not belong here, it feeds off the old and the weak and it cares not about the children dying in the streets.

It has nothing.  It has everything.  Greed.