Entrepreneurs of written word, capitalism is a burning church,
baptised in hymn but the purchase wasn’t researched, and our stock price fell on deafest ears.
We were usurped by rebellions within, value of verse down tenths of an American cent.
If the difference is spent navigating the reds, surpluses will defend themselves.
Welcome to the hell of reconcilating life with dollar worth, hands with the skin we worked away.
Welcome to the future,
today, the circles and squares of the boxes we share, only now from birds’ eye view.
Welcome to the immortality of you and I; a socialist enterprise with free market blessing,
monopolies on digressing
into age-old diatribes.
I always was a romantic with the starving artist vibe, and still am, only now I’ve learned to die with nothing, but never for nothing.
Turns out, that’s a white collar crime.