The mirth in my work
is fleeting at best.
Caverns exist between
me and my friends.
Slave slave slave they
want to say we are free.
Praise be unto thee
and thank you for this
opportunity.
I move things around
and earn an honest wage.
From this truck to that
shelf I pay my children's way.
From that shelf to your
cart, from your cart to your
cupboard, the cycle ends
with a capitalistic
fart.
Food is what I sell.
Productivity is what I
produce.
Give me my greenbacks
so my family
is well.
Forever the driver rolls over
the road and gloats to his
friends over quantities sold.
Forever the liar tells his
friends of his prowess
of sales and of deals
and of cars and of whores.
He is the manager, golden
in his glory his position
divine authority.
We are the free ones.
Self-sustained
self-assured.
