Talk through your nose, spout ignorant, inane, mindless and un-thought-out opinion about matters of no importance to ears that bleed with deceit.
Mobile phones twerp loud and ridiculous, as if it makes sense to announce an emergency with a ditty.
In your cardboard cubicle you spill early lunch crumbs across your keyboard in the vain hope of making some profound difference with the possibility of misfiring communication between rabid fingertip and radiating useless screen. Perhaps you'll get a pay raise this decade.
Who knows? Maybe they won't fire you from the 13th floor toilet window.
You dash through streets populated with vacant self importance, counting lunchtime minutes on nail-bitten fingers thrust deep in suit trouser pockets.
And later you bump shoulders with city-slick small-town big-shots in the self-important gallery of art-class banality; a thin patina of lurid oil on cliché canvas from wholesale culture and unimaginative glass-eyed perspective.
Fair Trade my arse.
Fare trade your ass for the busfare home, and dream a dream of a gas-guzzling oversized crash test dummy, hell-bent on twisting your chassis around a substandard light-pole in an overpopulated suburban neighbourhood crammed full of anal-capitalist shit-gatherers paying over-the-odds ransom to suck on the nipple of television pigswill propaganda-laden psychodrama.
Peel your lids back to watch as Jack-the-lad has '24' hours to torture the truth from some Evil-Arab-Muslim terrorist hell-bent on destroying your real estate dream while the good and moral man/woman deliberates sanitised world events in The West Wing.
Be thankful for your cardboard cubicle crumb-dusted keyboard and screen. Believe in the air-conditioned real estate dream. Give your children what they want.
Just don’t fuck with the Man - 'cos he’ll take it all away from you.
Mobile phones twerp loud and ridiculous, as if it makes sense to announce an emergency with a ditty.
In your cardboard cubicle you spill early lunch crumbs across your keyboard in the vain hope of making some profound difference with the possibility of misfiring communication between rabid fingertip and radiating useless screen. Perhaps you'll get a pay raise this decade.
Who knows? Maybe they won't fire you from the 13th floor toilet window.
You dash through streets populated with vacant self importance, counting lunchtime minutes on nail-bitten fingers thrust deep in suit trouser pockets.
And later you bump shoulders with city-slick small-town big-shots in the self-important gallery of art-class banality; a thin patina of lurid oil on cliché canvas from wholesale culture and unimaginative glass-eyed perspective.
Fair Trade my arse.
Fare trade your ass for the busfare home, and dream a dream of a gas-guzzling oversized crash test dummy, hell-bent on twisting your chassis around a substandard light-pole in an overpopulated suburban neighbourhood crammed full of anal-capitalist shit-gatherers paying over-the-odds ransom to suck on the nipple of television pigswill propaganda-laden psychodrama.
Peel your lids back to watch as Jack-the-lad has '24' hours to torture the truth from some Evil-Arab-Muslim terrorist hell-bent on destroying your real estate dream while the good and moral man/woman deliberates sanitised world events in The West Wing.
Be thankful for your cardboard cubicle crumb-dusted keyboard and screen. Believe in the air-conditioned real estate dream. Give your children what they want.
Just don’t fuck with the Man - 'cos he’ll take it all away from you.
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