Corporate Head Sleaze

A jar full of numbers, shaken and stirred

Is all that they are, all that they were

Captive and blinded, yet seldom disturbed

Ushered and gathered, forever interned

Tethered and tarnished, by toil they are bent

Hedged close together, like pigs in a pen

No, It’s not I, not me, and not you

They say to themselves, doing as they all do

Yet helpless, deaf, and sightless they stand

Empty of heart, souls tagged with brand

Unable to feel, void of goodness and dreams

Even laughter is suspect, false sighs of their whores 

They placidly walk through each dawning day

Each of them sleeping with each others pay

Lost and confused, for a ladder they slay

Selfish and hard, cold stone to the core

Kissing like fishes, cold slimy and bored

Friendships are ploys, mere sex for the boys

Great corporate evils, like black presidents

Tongues like sweet honey, great fouls do lament

Yet sneak in dark shadows, truth broken and bent

With falsehood and lies, and paper decrees

They poison all hope with their future disease

All of them Godless, for God lives in their sides 

They choose who he is and just what he’ll despise

They bow to themselves, no greater they see

No truth do they know but that which they seed

Complacent and lazy, just serving themselves

No thoughts of another but gain, gold and wealth

They use bodies as tools to barter and trade

Lips, breasts and eyes but expendable toys

Love is a word, a thing done in bed

In the back of a car, behind the old shed

With bodies they ply, the price for a spread

Hateful and shallow, how selfish they tread

Chained by their lustful, cruel demons unseen

This jar full of symbols, callused and mean

Full of mute numbers, oddly unseen

Too brainless to witness, too bitter to cease

Led to the slaughter, by corporate led sleaze

Bits in their mouths made of gold and warm breezes

They feed from the trough of company blight

Kindness, love…truth, justice and right

False corporate bylines, beyond their own sight

Just a jar full of numbers in the hands of headcheese

Soon smashed to the ground or drowned with such ease

As an evil loves not, but itself will it please

For so is it written, but with itself  is it smitten

© 2011, Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks