A once-stranger from my long dead past, chanced up me lately and so he asked
"Hey man, how's work?"
An innocent enough question, one hardly worth contention and so dismissed with the slightest of my attention
"Just the usual, it's fine. Another day of this same dull grind."
And that was that all things were said, yet this brooding idea now lives in my head
Wait a second, he doesn't even know what I do for a job, for all he knows I twirl my hair into fuzzy swab
He didn't really care, I mean, Who does? We all have a job or three and so work becomes background buzz
Living is pricey, we've gotta work if we wanna eat-- at least for those of us too honest to cheat
But fundamentally, it's all work isn't it? We put in our hours right up until we quit.
Doesn't matter if that's Farming, Writing, Building or Killing, us working plebs aren't the one, we're the million
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Doing the thankless jobs that keep it all holding together, yet some part of me thinks we could maybe do a little better
We need to work smarter, not longer and harder, why should I slave and die to fill a Tyrant's larder?
The tools are there, the knowledge too, managers need to understand its PEOPLE who work under you
Remove obstacles from our path, yet instead you create! Are you seriously that determined to be the target of our hate?
You want us to 'put in the hours,' not get the job done. This shit would never fly when I was under the gun.
Workers are shot in the foot and expected to fly, no wonder most keep their heads down and work until they die.
The difference between a wage that minimal and one that's livable is downright laughable, my analytic mind keeps seeing these deliberate shortcoming that can only be tactical.
Crush us with debt, force us out into the cold, after all desperation keeps the peasants from getting to bold.
We have the means to set things gold, so why the hell does it feel like I'm being sold this same malnourishing lie that things will be better when I'm old?
"Just stick things out, in a year or three or ten, things will work out for the best in the end."
Like Hell they will, how stupid are you to honestly believe that swill?
When all you do is roll over and take it with no end in sight, how do you sleep so alone and miserable at night?
Oh right, you buy their drugs and self-medicate, because only we zonked out of your mind can you tolerate your fate
But not me, I savagely proud in my poverty. I'm building resolve, resentment, that will one day see me free
Of this unending slave-driver's pace, because I'd sooner go back the Hell than stay in this Rat's Race.