I’ll make you well, good health I sell
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.
Rip at my cords and claim my fame
As they tug at my will to resist.
There’s a doorway where I lay;
What lies beyond, I cannot say
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
Your white picket fence
And the job it depends
Fill your life with but ash
March on, drone!
Work you dead to the bone.
Gather forces, tiaras, drag yourself to their gates