White Collar (C)Rime

Comes an ergonomic economics,
fleecing so comfortable
          you’d have enjoyed it
          (were you not so thoroughly flooced)

Still your neighbors got it worse.
Yet they were twice as thrilled.

So lying upon your feather-top mattress,
          sore between the cheeks,
          sound of spare change clinking about your head,
     dark shadows upon a darker wall,
     visions of compound interest dancing,
     dueling with a demonic seven-figure mortgage.

Comes an ergonomic economics,
keeps you sitting comfortably in place,
     position, time, and space.

Asks for nothing but nothing ‘cept
          an invisible hand prancing down the avenue,
front line, undressed,
          oath of filial piety, baron kept.

What can you, when sleeping on empty snail shells?
What can you, but accept the principles of ergonomy?

Where do you work?
What can you do?
Where do you work?
And for whom?

For who
who are you after all?

White Collar (C)Rime

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