fat

the work is effort.

the work is pointless.

it makes a fat man fatter.

that fat man is not you.

that fat man doesn't know

who you are.

that fat man could care less

about you.

but every day we awaken to 

feed the fat man and his cronies,

giving them our time and

our breath,

and our beating heart

to make small checks

for the fat man

to get fatter.

if there is a symptom of

wrong in the world,

it is greed;

gorging fat mouths

overflowing

with our labor.

on our backs they survive

they thrive

and grind away our very last

nerve

until we're a broken

mass of obeying

servants,

begging for scraps

of bread in the streets

and a threadbare

sheet to hide our 

deformities.

it is the fat man that survives,

that thrives,

that continues on to watch

the sunset.

and when we retire after

a long life of work-a-day,

that fat man breeds

another to take his place

so it can all begin again

for our children

and our children's children

as we wither and wilt,

as we wither and die

from this life of working

for fat men and women

that live the life we should

have enjoyed.