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.