Sunday, March 26, 2006

Workaholics

They sit small under office light,
skin drawn back pale and sickly white

Hapless all in great black masses
of round bellies and fat asses.

Each weekend workday that is lite,
herd stampedes beaches for sun's sight

Separate from the lower classes
sporting oils and tinted glasses.

Under the gun guts glaze and bake
disappointed with how much they make.

Maybe they’ll be on a boat
racked payments keeping it afloat.

Maybe they’ll be in a lake
lamenting for a boat to take.

Either which way its laze and bloat
a-griping at what gets their goat.

Right here I sit, cast among them
wishing hard not to become them.

Foolish and true a hypocrite
I too do all their same old shit.

Oh how it makes me choke and phlegm
to admit that I am just like them!

Onto their mold I do not fit
and it has me in a real snit.

Last year I vowed to quit this scrape
yet here I am the sour grape.

Someone help me to escape.
Someone help me to escape.

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