My soul is dull,
My rhymes are crimes.
I’m the paint drying on the wall.
And it’s just paper white—acadia white on exciting days.
There’s not much zest, pow, or wow
in the way that I cow
to sycophantic superiors, bow here and there,
and mow that lawn and this.
Spiritually dead at 18, physiologically deteriorating at
near-25,
Pawn in the capitalist castle, but upwardly mo-bile.
Perhaps I’ll have less to do and more to say—style,
Once I’ve achieved the topmost rank :/
Maybe I’ll have it all—time, money, “love”--
Even a car that drives itself, while I write poetry.
Thanks,
all you mechanical chauffeurs of the 21st century.
