As the world turns
And humanity burns
These are the days of our lives
Fretting over the mundane
Not realizing our incarceration
Behind greased walls
Inhaling the rot of decaying roots
Frying shards of ill-nutritional botany
Feeding the masses
Products of their own asses
Chafing the pointless into our souls
Putting us into confinement of ideals
Said to be upheld
Surrounded by unbraced cubic walls
Sitting behind a shackled desk
Brooding over heaps of paper
Each capturing a part of you
Constricting it
Choking it
Collapsing it
Killing you
All for the good of the company
You could give two squirts of piss about
Just to receive your nine to five pay
Each dollar earned
Discerned each part of you as dis-earned
Slowly loosing your divinity
To keep those seeded ideals
Planted in you at a young age
Watered by the ting of the coins gathered
Sheltered by the green parched bills
Handed to you
In trade
For shards of your being
Insuring
The fata morgana of needed consumption

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