In matching shell suits, baseball caps and sneakers
You see them slumped before a quarter pounder
(Fries on the side), clutching at straws in beakers
That show the icon of a would-be founder:
As uniform as conscripts, and as mild
As in a regulator's fondest dreams
When he is busy beckoning the child
Out of each adult to obey his schemes.

These are the tourists; pilgrims on the routes
That knit the world around in peace and goods
Although they wear the camouflage of brutes
Bred out of gangsters from the L.A. 'hoods.

From China to Peru, their drifts extend them
With only godless guidebooks to befriend them.