yeah the worker bee
pines its honey just for me
call it slavery
and the worker rat
keeps the boss rats
wallets fat
and he sneaks
a piece of cheese from me
and the field of mice
work each day
and die each night
just tickets out of time,
standing in a line

side a jar
in a line
product name on the side
turn the tide
we can earn for our kind
a different kind of life,
one that feels right

an upset stomach
drinks and pills
liquid form
and prescripts
to stop chills
from the stacks of your bills
and the economic plummit
they sell on margin
and they love it,
work yourself to death,
to the pearled form gates with debt.

sionara
say goodbye
the same t's
are crossed in blood
and i's aren't dotted
not at all; so they say,
but who're we to believe
what they say
anyway.