I’ll make you well, good health I sell
Passing promises from clan to man To the axe in my greasy palms
Underpaid, overworked –
Demand a raise, watch them smirk;
We are gods of the world we accept
Asphyxiation by avarice,
Lost in a sea of plastic bliss.
It’s all just one big con isn’t it? Work for scraps, to buy food that poisons you, to run a car giving you cancer, never able to truly save up for that rainy day that we’ll never see once the mushroom clouds have burned out our retinas
Abandoned to live,
Though you give and you give
Your white picket fence
And the job it depends
Fill your life with but ash
March on, drone!
Work you dead to the bone.
Bossed into breaking belligerent backs,
Just to pile more onto offshored stacks