The wide eyes of the fresh faced staff
at stake; a steel collection plate
making the rounds; the slimy hand
of the greetings dwarf out of sight:
no wonder the air conditioners
work themselves into a frenzy,
blowing and sucking for the mob,
with their bits of fluff and paper
dancing to the tune of the gas
they seep. Into the gaping mouths
of the innocent, blank words form
a funk, like a swarm of horse flies
cruising the dung down horse-shit road.
The pixels crawl on the great screen;
a slave army. We have requirements
by bullet point. The theme is clear:
joy is not to be a given
but must be earned through giving
more. Play hard, work hard.
Ethic is all in our family!
Outside the great hall, a door, high
as heaven, is cracked open. Men,
two of them, stand God skinned, withered,
for once under the microscope.
Tasting fear in the wings, they must
prepare the punch; a meaty brew
of fat boiled off into a brine.
We’ll swallow when instructed; smile
that final frame before the dark,
with our tutus stained, and tip toes
raw to a point. Adagio!
Drink, my children; let our magic
concoction moisten your dry throats;
then dance for us, children. Real slow.