Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Working Class Doom

There is a seemingly growing corporate weight on my head.
Pegged for all to see, I have become a dealer for the man.
The extreme push on the product, spoken loudly or in hush.
I have become a marketable reason for people to lose.
Once, a knight in shiney technology, sent to advise the future.
Now, a mediocre weasel sentenced to claim and to judge.
My tactics are unfaithful, the coroprate eye is watching me.
I am not badgering and leading the troops down the bunny hole.
I am not wearing their cloak of dispair, I am shelving the merchandise.
I allow you to wander and to gaze, to inquire and to inspire.
The hammer is coming close to my stress. 
I am not a pusher of the man's product.
I cannot play the devil's advocate, nor can I play a chariot champion.
I am the simple greeter, the cautious advisor, 
the meek being slayed by the hand of man.

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