The Doctor

I’ll make you well, good health I sell

Mirror Ball

Passing promises from clan to man
To the axe in my greasy palms

The Game

Underpaid, overworked –
Demand a raise, watch them smirk;

We are all Gods

We are gods of the world we accept

Drown

Asphyxiation by avarice,
Lost in a sea of plastic bliss.

Rant #1 – The World is Fucked

It’s all just one big con isn’t it? Work for scraps, to buy food that poisons you, to run a car giving you cancer, never able to truly save up for that rainy day that we’ll never see once the mushroom clouds have burned out our retinas

Ghost

Abandoned to live,
Though you give and you give

Private Hell

Your white picket fence
And the job it depends
Fill your life with but ash

Inc.

March on, drone!
Work you dead to the bone.

Human

Bossed into breaking belligerent backs,
Just to pile more onto offshored stacks