I'm taking an elevator to the
top of a building full of
people who don't care to know my name.

And on the way up,
my mom calls me and asks me
"Where are you?"
and I have to tell her
"I don't know,"
because nobody actually told me
on the way in, and I'm alone,
and the elevator isn't moving,
and my bank account isn't moving,
and now that I'm home
(which I'm not,)
((which I am,))
I can't figure out how to move my feet,
and so my legs aren't moving,
and my arms aren't moving,
and my head isn't moving.

And basically, I'm not going to
dance for these corporations,
so they're not going to dance for me
until I'm back on an elevator, singing
"Hey there, Delilah.
How's it feel to be exploited?"

But that's okay, because despite
my arms, legs, feet, bank account,
and this elevator,
my heart is moving.
And the continents are moving,
and this planet is moving,
and there isn't a CFO on Easy Street
who knows how to slow us down.