About to clock into work.

These shoes are digging into my feet.

They are black,

with elastic straps to tighten them.

I walk to the punch clock.

I reach out to touch the keys.

With each stroke of the finger.

My soul leaves

it seeps out like tears from a statue.

It stains the tile around my feet.

Work is not honorable,

and it brings no joy.

It shouldn't be honorable

It should bring no joy.

It is the trap that all men fall into.

Some woman do too.

If they are ugly or stupid.

The boss knows its pointless.

The workers know its pointless.

When i think of my job,

i think of the warn out treads of my black shoes.

Each man just a stub to grip the ground.

The shoe of course is composed of all the consumers.

The foot that wears it is the boss man.

Who walks all over all of us.

Using us to get ahead.