The sky, overcast, hangs above the muddy roads,
Over the damp piles of metal and bricks,
Over this void of trees and an excess
Of biped freaks, the proud owners of the land.
The urgency to reach where I must go
Intensifies. I must be there before
The shift begins, of honored slavery,
Before the raindrops start to fall.
For the cost of means would go up no doubt
With each drop. How come they don’t pay us more
When we attend our shifts, no matter what
The skies might have thrown up at us?
That’s the way of things and one must live with the flow
Or be gone, for once a slave, one can never know.