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Manolo stares blankly upon his spare space.
He is poor and owns little but his soul.
His crooked body moves slow.
The United States, well-heeled and well-muscled, under the guise of helpful living, stares wantonly at Venezuela.
Saliva pours over its yellow, razored teeth.
America is hungry and desires its meat and oil.
It will have it.
Manolo, alone in his space, is frightened.
Manolo is old now.
He is hungry and desires change, but he yearns to be a man.
Manolo is a Chavista, but Chavez is no longer here.
Who will fight for Manolo?
Manolo is weary, but he will fight for Maduro.
Guaido is pretty, but Guaido does not know him.
Guaido speaks for the rich.
Guaido speaks for El Norte.
Maduro is corrupt, but Maduro speaks for Manolo.
It is an easy choice for los ancianos.
Manolo is old, and Manolo will fight for dignity.
Manolo needs no money.
Where he is going, money has no value.
Bread is for the young.
Okay, I hear you, babe, five bucks is too much. How about two bucks? Thanks much.
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