All these
meaningful
misguided future
servants look at
me like a
servant.
I serve none
but my own
intentions,
be them independent
or subtly washed.
Wiping tables
to please them...
who's in control of
a fucking kitchen?
The coitus machines
line up and
expose themselves
but talk too much.
I stand still
with my back
deteriorating
as I
sell my soul
for minimum wage.
