Business

Typewriters typing business letters
  to the business world.
Copiers ditto triplicate forms
   to run the written word.
Bosses bossing, but doing nothing-
   it's absurd.
Where do i fit into this plastic molded world?

A thousand assembly workers forget they have hands
   (as workers watch the machines take command).
And upstairs executives make vacation plans.
As a million dollars float around in the wind,
only to fall into the hands of the taxman.

It's a plastic pick me up.
     a pill for your worries.
     a bill for your wallet.
     a kill on your paycheck.

Where do I fall into this
   corporate plan?
How do I call myself,
   of even feel like a man?
Is it that I'm the only one
   who wonders who I am?
Or could it be I'm another part
   of I.B.M.?

-dp-