This is Your Job

this is your job they say,
arthritic finger pointed bony and obsolete
lingering in the general air
and you think to  yourself
"do i really have a choice?"
the sad truth is
you don't.
this is your job they say,
as the man wraps his fingers around suspenders
chomping endlessly on cigar
nicotine stained teeth and fine whiskey breath
it's all too sad
to bear.
some don't.
this is your job they say,
to grow up and make money
get a house
pop out some kids
marry a no good woman
a dead woman
and be a necrophiliac
to sustain yourself with drinks
to block out the fact that they've got you.
pay your taxes
buy it all on credit
eat the manufactured food
fuck the manufactured woman
wear the manufactured clothes
sewn by some poor fuck
who makes less than $8 a day
in some country south of here
snort the coke
sorted by the children
and smuggled here in someones ass
is this sad for you?
is this too much truth for you?
yes.
but truth nonetheless
i don't want to fill my house with new furniture
gourmet food
fine art
electronics
candy bars
or whores
distractions
it's all distractions to keep you
from realizing
that they are fucking you in the ass
every seconds hour and minute
you're alive
they're fucking you now
fucking me now
i just want to know
who's behind me
with the cock
wrapped in dollar bills.