I do not envy the man about town, The shackle suit and morning groom, The campaign of papers and style, Whose work a day is but a futile way And each choice is ruin to the heart.
The pill shaped tables of the board rooms, Where ink is blood and flesh is facsimile, Caged in by the cubicle, lets in no breeze, Only the still air of stifle, encased. What dreams may die in this dullness Of days? There is a ringing that will not Cease. There are stalls by the staples, there is No peace. And time is warden either side Of the glass doors and with mercenary feet And closed eyes he makes his stand, he makes His choice, he sets his gait, chimes in lock step, His voice is hoarse, and all his salary days Are trojan.
No, I do not relish the dog Eat dog, nor the barking toes that step so low, Even lower than the hangman's boom. For like A slug crossing a busy street he does not fear The tread. He does not know these sounds are clink. His thoughts are trapped in folders read, and with Mobile cells his ears are pinned and grating-micro- Waves well cancer to his brain.