Mass production consumes like a fire,
The fuel supply,
The motive to tire.
With sickening smiles tearing at cheek fat,
Gleaming eyes of oppression hiding under dark bags.
Suits pressed so flat and stitched with no color,
Their fat, happy bellies spilling over waist covers.
I'm politically correct,
I have no opinion,
The people who wish are just another minion,
In god I trust to assure the masses.
I hold babies,
And hire bodyguards to hide from assassins.
I've done no good for the people I feed,
I've yet done well to the animals I breed,
My wrinkled ears perk at the sound of green,
And my greedy mouth drools with my nicotine teeth.
This control I have,
I hold,
I heave,
The pain I cause was not the ten year old me.