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An artificial Paris, Manhattan shrunk to scale; Replicated pyramids And galleons under sail. The Land of Oz, the Coliseum, All parts of the collage; Volcanoes join the smoke and mirrors At aptly-named Mirage. Engineered with all the sound, The very touch and feel Of every wonder of the world, But none of them are real. And just behind the great facade, Where actors spew their lines; Lie the traps of misery In camouflaged designs. Lust is love’s great counterfeit, And greed, ambition’s foe; Where temptation takes the flesh, The soul’s obliged to go. The tease of sex from painted dolls Who make as though they care. But once the wallet’s been bled dry They’ve nothing more to share. ""Magic potions bring you bliss"", Drink’s siren song is heard; Time has shown that ride’s not free, The payment’s just deferred. Enticements of such easy gold, Not earned, just ""gifts of fate""; The winners few are put on view As lemmings flood the gate; Who rush toward those sensations Of simulated joy; Thus charging with abandon Into the horse of Troy. Where the enemy to character To happiness, to peace; Applies the shears to mindless sheep And laughs with every fleece. The victims are but faint aware Things are not what they seem They swallow every pleasure down ‘Ere someone halts the dream A fishing lure’s a lie for sure But still it draws the fish, Who, thinking he’s about to dine, Soon finds that he’s the dish. So Vegas is The World compressed Onto a single street; A gilded path that leads at last To virtue’s sad defeat. As false as Camelot’s towers, As shallow as man-made lakes; Those promises that line the Strip Are, in the end, just fakes.
Wes Stephenson

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