Our Purpose
Forty hours a week or more
Fifty-two weeks a year
Forty years we spend
In so-called production
Laboring for an unseen fist
Forcing us to give up our time
The handgun of starvation
Pointed at our backs
There’s so much more we could do with our lives
To make them worth living beyond endless toil
To contribute to the world we live in
In the ways that we see fit
But the bosses and politicians
Have decided how we spend our lives
Doing what they tell us
No matter what we think
Just let me be the boss man
Let me push those pasty weaklings on
Force them to the ditches
Digging with their shattered backs
So if that is all we’re here for
If that is all there is
Then wouldn’t it be better
To leave this prison place
To take the little that we have
All that we deem important
And flee to a hidden wood
To build our future home?
If all of us would move away
And leave the office empty
A vacant factory floor
Shops without customers
Apartments without renters
Armies without soldiers
Bosses without workers
What would they do then?
Would the bosses starve if we told them
Their money was worthless paper
And we decided that their standards
Were meaningless to us?
I don’t know the future
But boots on the neck make enemies
The stick is but a prodding
For rebellion, the end foretold.
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