We are just like
Those cars that follow
Roads of long asphalt tongues
Wet from greasy rain
We are the 9 to 5
Or the 6 to 7 or 8
The never ending sloth of the mundane
Our heads shoved into pathetic cars.
Following the same stench
Rising from the same throat
As labor regurgitates
And we crawl
We are released back into the holes
We rose from.