The working dead!

Cars screeching, people screaming,

Madness galore in the morning streets,

Deadly half-hearted stares and snares,

Fatigued minds in suits, beware,

The working dead!

A dull mind, the devils’ in the workshop,

Slaves to the worksheets,

Zombied by the boss’ demanding commands,

A failure, they reprimand,

By the powerful stroke of their inks, a fire they’ll ‘write’,

In memory of their work, candles they’ll light,

A new body they’ll find,

Their brains they’ll pick, 

Likes the cows and sheep, the pen’s a worker’s home,

The system feeds them with futuristic schemes of benefits,

The ink’s the key to their future,

But in the end, only the pension awaits, 

Weren’t the promises of financial freedom made?

So when does the game get good for you and me?

When will we break to think about him or her?

When will we sing the songs of freedom?

A tale of the working dead.