Thus spake Phil Cubeta, waxing eloquently here:
Now that all our games are up and the war against poverty is proclaimed unending, where shall we go? hands out, shoes un-soled, heads bare? from whose table shall we scrape a scrap? will we dine on dreams again, or shall our cup be filled once more? our lips are chapped, our limbs weak. what vision does this final fortune cookie hold for me, beggar to the stars?