Emaan
Sagging jowls and empty eyes
Fine wrinkles and little white lies.
Wage slaves begging for hire
Robots in office attire
Dirty carpets and flickering LEDs
The stale scent of week Old Chinese
The stuttering hum of the microwaves circular whiring
Office rumours like malignant Tumours are reoccurring
It’s your job it’s your pride it’s your dignity to
But without your secret flask you couldn’t make it to half past two
The unity of ceiling tiles mirrored overhead
Flirting with the thought that your better of dead
Louis vitton bags accessoriesed with overdue mortgages
Company’s frauds guarded like fortresses
The sour whispers of office politics permeate the air
Careers ruined over who took the last eclair
Your children are starving your house is dilapidated
Your thin lips smile until the boss is infatuated
Now your on your knees for an office promotion
Whispers ignite fires of a PR explosion
Now your crossing all your tees and dotting all your is
Can’t even look your family in the eyes
Living and dying by the shadow of the pound
Market crash drop and the ledge is a long way down