Buzzing alarms, striking eight o' clock with a plan,
Dressed pin-striped so I can meet " The Something Men".
Among them are the monotones that pierce no silence.
Reaching, SLAMMING on the clock a bit past ten,
Shedding feelings that hardly I can mention.
Patent leather hitting Own St., and I opened my briefcase at Soul Plaza.
Waking before the city lights close their eyes,
Deciding between the instant oatmeal or corporate bath.
Never will industry keep watch on me, I keep my own fucking time.