Fluorescent lights make everyone look ill,
And all are chained, though these chains can’t be seen.
The hardest work is waiting, waiting till
The stroke of five disarms the time machine.
Each link’s a payment pressing to be made,
Each moment mortgaged till some future moment comes.
Bills and bills and bills wait to be paid,
As — between computers — conversation hums.
Each moment mortgaged till some future moment comes,
More and more paperwork piled softly in the bin.
As — between computers — conversation hums,
Forbidden music mustn’t complicate the din.
More and more paperwork piles softly in the bin,
In cubicles the gods insist must look the same.
Forbidden music mustn’t complicate the din,
and no framed photos. Just a plate that says your name.
In cubicles the gods insist must look the same,
Where light that’s natural must never penetrate,
Are no framed photos. Just a plate that says your name
And where your heart should be, a leaden paperweight.
Where light that’s natural may never penetrate,
Year after year of furtive search will only find
Where your heart should be, a leaden paperweight,
And no song but the drone of the dulled mind.
Year after year of furtive search will only find
That what we see remains all that we will,
And no song but the drone of the dulled mind
Can ease the ache from all this sitting still.
What we see remains all that we will.
The hardest work is waiting, waiting till
Retirement blunts the ache from all this sitting still.
Fluorescent lights make everyone look ill.
