I want to get in from the cold,
I want to stop growing old,
If anyone asks my soul has sold,
It wasn’t worth its weight in gold.
To work I must go, the temple of cold hard cash,
There we are flogged until our backs look like hash,
I try to hide mine with a sash,
Although I think I’ve caught a rash.
In the end there is no fun,
In the end we’ve lost the sun,
In the end the turkey’s done,
All that’s left is the gun.
No sense does this poem make,
My life you will never take.