I am one, if you please, who despises his work and in this I’m by no means unusual
But the thing I despise isn’t much enterprise; now, please wait, I’m not really delusional…
I hate numbers and pages, and spreadsheets and wages, and laws and duties and rules
It’s as though man has taken the human equation, and multiplied inhuman tools.
Now I know it’s been shown, through the ages we’ve known, that the wages of sin are profound.
As a way to combat it, we pulled out the hatchet, and chopped our humanity down.
Then we sorted the parts, and in fits and in starts, rearranged every passion and stirring,
A masterpiece made us, in order to save us, a structured colossus went whirring.
And what still remained us, when ‘manity’s Magus, convulsed into chanting and dirged?
Was it any wonder, twas Frankenstein’s Monster, which out of that cauldron emerged?
And so, here I stand, midst Modernity’s plan, stamped and filed lest passion should barge-in,
That is why I do hob, at my despised job: It allows me to live in the Margin.