Work, again a viable victim to the pointy humane subjection,
A rise to the ass, the dropping of the pitifully camouflaged uniform pants that tells me I am just like you,
The tides of my decisions will cast on the shores of my futures,
The futures of my tides will case on the shore of my decisions.
Work, is my idea, it can never be yours,
You need, your reasons to direct the crippled typing hands,
I need my heart to beat the keys,
Work, is impossible, when work.
Let tomorrow come again, and again, and again,
Reprehensible actions of a trying man, always,
The subordinate equal, alike but wrong,
The goddess of the book, throwing protocol to fill the cup,
Of structure and know how—
To allow all of this atrocity to exist, to live, to persist.
Take the sense from the nonsense, be left with nothing,
Take nothing from nonsense, and be left with me.
