Business

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

Assembly workers forget they have hands
    do bit work machines can't command. 
Meanwhile  executives make vacation plans.
with millions of dollars floating to foreign lands,
So as never to reach 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?
Am I not the only one
   who wonders who I am?
Or could it be I'm just a part
   of I.B.M.?

-dp-
11-13-82 / 2-24-13