128270
128270 is all that I am
Merely a number no longer a man
A decade of hope and honor and pride
This machine has no compassion inside
Our leaders, stockholder and managers entranced
Lay havoc on each of us worker bee ants
The poison the spill on the piles of our dust
Is often confused for a new business must
In hives and holes scattered and abound
Lay us worker bee ants trying to make our day rounds
The drill and the chore is all which in store
And in the end nothing perhaps a bit more
The leaches they suck on our blood like their due
To engorge on the life-force of us non-precious few
And us worker bee ants start the dawn of the day
And in darkness return whence where we stay
The bastards have lunches in high flying jets
Vacations and ranches and blank corporate checks
Smiling on all they view and think own
Everything for a buck no matter who’s thrown
We the disrepute the embarrassing child
Churn in a belly of pure acid bile
Rot and decay our lot in out time
Treated as nothing but discardable slime
And as Gary our heart and our soul and our light
Dissolves into unconsciousness blight
The leaders look to the terror sans see
Ignoring all that is that which we flee
Copyright © Jim Culhane | Year Posted 2005
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