A Villanelle For Capital

Get up, eat.

Drink some speed.

Get on the rat race’s beat.

Out the door, you proceed,

just another person in the street.

Not an inch of power to concede.

Show up, sign the sheet,

like the faceless hog decreed,

and with pay, you can’t compete.

Day in and out, at a painful speed,

destroy your brains and heartbeat,

and don’t slow down, or profits you’ll impede.

All in the black on the balance sheet,

Covid means nothing to the hogs of greed.

Just profits, deaths, and lives incomplete.

You think this is wrong? You’re just a deadbeat.

This is the life to which you agreed.

Because the bosses kept the receipt,

and will gladly beat you until you bleed.

Published by James J Jackson

I'm a poet from California.

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