boil me in oil,
toiling in soil;
bury me alive,
so that i might find,
a better way to hide,
from the crimes my minds commit each time.

snap, crackle, and pop my bones,
atone for the sins of a featherweight soul,
lay me to rest by the roadside,
and cry,
you will now be left to die.

a machine hungers,
bubbles and churns,
it eats alive everything in sight,
and asks what more you could've done,
to increase the profits for chosen ones,
but if you the one losing,
who are the ones choosing?