Practically a rapture seems to occur upon waking
Though steady and steady it keeps the beat
Faking it...faking a smile to sell
But tell me Mr. Professional–
What becomes of proper politeness
And just how far can you get with a botoxed face and tanning bed tan
A man is just not a man unless he vents
Money well made and money well spent?
Oh Mr. Boss Man, pardon my grimace
If you’d just let me finish
Let me earn my ten bucks an hour
It’s the power that’s gotten to you
And the God forsaken black heart that got to me.
Watch me frown like the pseudo-intellectual existential lady I am:
Proceed to kick me to the curb.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.