No longer visit these job gimmicks. They’ll be ended
in blemish, my position 4ever defended.
Pyramid construction, something Orwellian,
I fear it is induction, not clear if there’s
instructions. But either way, I’m finished
with this meager pay. So I write like every line’s the
last one. And I’ll stay in the chair until
I tap done. Increasingly harder to pen
time for mySelf. Gather dimes from a well
so I can disseminate my stories and tell what
exactly I’ve observed. And what I think
I deserve. I’m on the brink of a swerve
into a more lucrative containment. A
sovereignly intuitive derangement.
But what type of Artist do I want to
be? ‘Cause one in a famished battle’s a dog, diseased.